The Shadowed Mind (A Dinah Harris Mystery) 0890515905, 9780890515907

Citation preview

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Who will be found worthy to live; who is the next victim? o After the deadly investigation into the Smithsonian murders, Dinah Harris is now facing a daily battle to keep her sobriety while struggling to form a new career from the ashes of her former job as an FBI agent. From the shadows will emerge a cunning and terrifying killer, who carefully and methodically will decide whose life has value to society and whose does not. Using her profiling and security skills as a private consultant based in Washington, DC, Dinah uncovers a connection to the shadowy world of neo-eugenics, and those who publicly denounce the killings but privately support a much different view.

the

Shad owed Mind A

Dinah Harris MYSTERY

CAVE

Against this backdrop, Dinah must come to terms with her own past, as those associated with the deepening mystery face their own personal demons, and struggle with the concept of God’s inexhaustible grace and forgiveness. Old secrets are revealed, tragedies unearthed, and the devastating legacy of science without compassion is finally brought to light.

Shadowed Mind

A suspense-filled mystery which answers an ominous question:

The second in a powerful new fiction trilogy! juliecave.com

FICTION/Christian/Suspense $9.99 U.S.

ISBN-13: 978-0-89051-590-7

EAN

Julie Cave

Shad owed Mind the

Shad owed Mind the

A

Dinah Harris MYSTERY

Julie Cave

First printing: October 2010 Third printing: April 2022 Copyright © 2010 by Julie Cave. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations in articles and reviews. For information write: Master Books®, P.O. Box 726, Green Forest, AR 72638 Master Books® is a division of the New Leaf Publishing Group, Inc.

ISBN: 978-0-89051-590-7 ISBN: 978-1-61458-022-5 (digital) Library of Congress Number: 2010936940 All characters appearing in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Please consider requesting that a copy of this volume be purchased by your local library system. Printed in the United States of America Please visit our website for other great titles: www.masterbooks.com For information regarding author interviews, please contact the publicity department at (870) 438-5288.

Acknowledgments Again I am deeply indebted to Steve Ham for his collaboration on this book. Despite an enormously busy schedule, he read every word carefully to ensure accuracy, suggested alternative ideas, and encouraged the development of story lines. I thank him from the bottom of my heart for his ongoing dedication to my books. An enormous thank you is owed to Dr. Georgia Purdom who extensively edited the book and who also, despite a busy schedule, spent many hours ensuring the book was just right. Her attention to detail is second to none and I will never be able to express my thanks adequately. Thanks to Ken Ham who continues to champion my efforts. I am very appreciative of everything he has done for me since this writing journey began. Thanks to my husband, Terry, who has sacrificed many precious weekends to allow me to work on this book and always offers his honest thoughts on the direction of a manuscript. I couldn’t do it without you. I love you. This book is dedicated to our much loved daughter Jasmine, who is such a blessing to me and has brought untold joy into my life. I love you, baby girl. The glory belongs to God.

Contents Chapter 1...........................................................................................8 Chapter 2.........................................................................................20 Chapter 3.........................................................................................32 Chapter 4.........................................................................................48 Chapter 5.........................................................................................60 Chapter 6.........................................................................................74 Chapter 7.........................................................................................88 Chapter 8.......................................................................................102 Chapter 9.......................................................................................112 Chapter 10.....................................................................................126 Chapter 11.....................................................................................138 Chapter 12.....................................................................................150 Chapter 13.....................................................................................162 Chapter 14.....................................................................................176 Chapter 15.....................................................................................190 Chapter 16.....................................................................................204 Chapter 17.....................................................................................216 Chapter 18.....................................................................................230 Chapter 19.....................................................................................244 Chapter 20.....................................................................................256 Chapter 21.....................................................................................270 Excerpt from Pieces of Light............................................................282 About the Author...........................................................................284

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e looked utterly ordinary. Cruising the streets of Washington DC, he looked like he belonged there. He was wearing a charcoal pinstriped suit, a red and blue silk tie, and shiny Italian leather shoes. He carried a calfskin briefcase. His cell phone was tucked in his pocket — one of his most useful props. Who would look twice at a man in a suit with a briefcase and cell phone, in the heart of DC? Yet his reasons for being in the city were far from ordinary. He had come to find and stalk his prey. It was early evening in the first week of a promising summer. The streets were busy and the restaurants and cafes packed with patrons, enjoying the arrival of longer, warmer days. A new, wild optimism seemed to charge the atmosphere when summer arrived — the shackles 8

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of winter thrown off, thoughts turned now to vacations, beaches, and the possibility of a tan. Business lunches seemed less highpowered, with talk revolving around yachts and summer houses rather than the economy and falling commodity prices. He should know — he existed in that world during the day and partook in those very lunches and conversations. But at night, when the mood overcame him, a new creature emerged. His prey wouldn’t be found on Pennsylvania Avenue or Constitution Avenue. He would have to traverse the shadowy alleyways and the darkest corners of the city to find what he was looking for. He wasn’t afraid. He was the one who struck fear into the hearts of others. He headed northeast of the city, where crack cocaine was sold on the streets only blocks away from Capitol Hill. He was entering neighborhoods where the shade of his skin could put him in danger, but he strode confidently. As he walked, his eyes constantly roamed, taking in the people around him. Though he received several catcalls and jeers, those who got sufficiently close enough to see his eyes soon backed away. He realized that in this part of town, potential victims were plentiful. Human life was cheap and could be bought by the highest bidder. But he wanted more than a chance to buy five minutes in an alleyway. It took some time, but finally he found someone who had real potential. She stood on a street corner, arms crossed over her skinny ribcage, and shoulders hunched defensively. Her dirty blonde hair hung forward over her face, but he could see that she was still attractive despite the weariness evident in her face. Track marks dotted both arms. Boldly, he approached. “Want to get a cup of coffee?” he asked, offering what he hoped was an engaging smile. She stared at him in confusion. “What?” He held up his hands placatingly. “I don’t want anything from you except a cup of coffee. I swear.” She glanced around, probably for a friend who watched from the shadows. “I’m waitin’ for some stuff, y’know what I’m sayin’?” “I’ll pay you five hundred,” he said, “for nothing except coffee and food, if you want it.” 9

A Dinah Harris Mystery “You a cop?” she asked warily. “No, I’m not. I’m definitely not a cop.” The thought almost made him laugh. “I can’t be away too long,” she said, with a frown. “It’s completely up to you,” he agreed. Still not believing her luck, she walked with him down the street, to where a crumbling cafe did its trade. The lights were blindingly bright and the bright yellow Formica counters were chipped and cracked. The cook, a large woman with a permanent scowl on her face, watched them suspiciously from the kitchen. He ordered two cups of coffee and a cheeseburger for her. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Lakeisha,” she said, pouring six sugars into her coffee. Her nails were short and badly chewed. She didn’t look at him. “How long have you been out there?” he asked, gesturing out at the street. She shrugged. “Year, maybe?” She’d survived a year. She was either pretty tough or very fortunate. “What did you do before that?” She offered another indifferent shrug. “Went to school, some.” He frowned. “How old are you?” “Seventeen.” The cheeseburger arrived and she wolfed it down, barely stopping to chew. “Do you have a boyfriend?” “Yeah, he takes care of me.” She stole a fleeting glance toward the street. The boyfriend was probably part of her small gang, made up of runaways just like her, he thought. He was probably addicted to the same drugs and he kept her in her drug of choice in exchange for a measure of protection. “Does he treat you well?” She almost smiled, and it was haunting. The answer was probably no. Girls like her were rarely treated well. He nodded toward the scars and marks on her arms. “Is it smack?” Lakeisha folded her arms and stared down at the Formica table. He ordered some apple pie for her and they sat in silence for a while. He was starting to feel warmly positive about her — he was almost sure she was the one. 10

The Shadowed Mind “Where are your parents?” he asked. The pie was inhaled almost as quickly as the cheeseburger. “Don’t know my pops. Don’t care what Mom is doing.” “Why is that?” She paused, her young face hardening. “She chose her boyfriend over me. Why would I care about her?” “Does she try to contact you?” he asked. She shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” Perfect, he thought happily. “She had a lot of boyfriends when you were growing up?” Lakeisha looked disgusted. “Yup. Kicked me out o’ the house every time they came over.” He could have hugged her. She stood suddenly and held out her hand for the money. “Gotta get back,” she said. He paid her five hundred dollars. “Thanks, Lakeisha,” he said, working hard to be charming. “It really has been a pleasure.” The young lady eyed him mistrustfully. “Whatever.” He pretended not to watch her walk down the street, but in truth, it hurt not to stare hungrily at her retreating figure. I’ll see you later. ****

Dinah Harris sat back in her chair and looked over her desk thoughtfully. She’d spent the morning setting it up — it probably shouldn’t have taken so long, she admitted to herself, but she was a little obsessive about organization. Her laptop sat in the center, flanked by a phone and a document tray. A printer stood next to the tray and a stainless steel pen holder was wedged next to the phone. The blotter was brand new and clear. Now, all she had to do was hope that the phone would ring and she would actually have a job to do. It had been six months since her ignominious firing from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the subsequent fall from grace of her immediate supervisor and Special Agent in Charge, George Hanlon, during what she had dubbed the Smithsonian case. Hanlon had been killed in a Virginia prison while awaiting trial for his involvement in the murder of four people. The case had had ramifications throughout 11

A Dinah Harris Mystery the FBI, the Smithsonian Institution, and the halls of political power. It had been a case that had pushed Dinah to the edge of oblivion, emotionally and physically. Dinah hadn’t escaped unscathed from the ordeal. She had spent 60 days in a rehab facility, dealing with her alcohol addiction. When she’d returned home, she’d felt as weak as a newborn kitten. She had to relearn how to live in her world without the crutch of wine or vodka. She had ventured forth, feeling as though she’d returned to a completely different city; such was the change in her life. She was now enrolled in the clinic’s outpatient recovery program, which required her to keep in constant contact with a mentor and counselor. It was necessary for her to attend weekly counseling sessions with her mentor, and check in by phone several times a week to ensure that her recovery was on track. And while sometimes the desire to drink literally made her hands shake, she thanked God that she hadn’t relapsed. Following her release from rehab, Dinah had cast around for something to do. The FBI would not take her back, given her spectacular, fiery exit that had been well documented by the media. Having once been one of the very best profilers the Bureau had, she decided to use her skills on a consultancy basis. Whether this would work or not remained to be seen. This was what had led to the set up of her new desk and landline. Dinah stared at the phone and drummed her fingers on the desk. Suddenly, it rang. “Hello, Dinah Harris,” she said. “Well, that was very professional,” said a familiar voice. “Ferguson! It’s only you. I thought it might be someone important,” Dinah replied. David Ferguson had been her partner at the FBI and had literally saved her life during the Smithsonian case. Despite her sarcasm, she was thrilled to hear from him. “How’s civilian life?” Ferguson asked. “Good so far. I’m just waiting for the phone to start ringing. How’s the Bureau?” “You know, the same but different. I have a new Special Agent in Charge, obviously.” Dinah laughed. She could just imagine the earthquake that had divided the Bureau in the wake of the Smithsonian case. They had 12

The Shadowed Mind thought she would be their biggest liability — yet it had been Hanlon who had stolen the headlines. “Any good cases?” she asked, almost wistfully. “Not really.” There was an awkward pause. “So how’s . . . you know, everything?” Dinah didn’t really want to talk about it, but she owed Ferguson so much that he deserved to know. “It hasn’t been fun,” she admitted. “Rehab was hard. Coming back and living here has been harder. I have to pass the liquor store where I bought my supplies all the time. But every passing day means one more day of success. I’ve found a great church to go to, too.” “You in a church? How many of the congregation have you offended?” Ferguson chuckled. Dinah’s sarcasm was legendary throughout the Bureau. “Seriously, that’s really great. I’m glad to hear that you’re getting everything back together.” Dinah glanced over at two framed photos on the living room wall, haunting reminders that she would never have everything back together. The loss of her husband, Luke, and little boy, Sammy, in a car accident reminded her daily that her own family would never be back together. She felt the familiar needle of sorrow pierce her heart and old wounds weep tiny tears like a leaking tap. “Yeah,” she said, more brightly than she felt. “I’m getting there. In the meantime, do me a favor and pass my name around town, would you?” “You got it. Listen, I have to go. Keep in touch, okay, Harris?” “You bet.” Dinah hung up and checked the wall clock. It was almost six o’clock in the evening, the hardest part of the day for her. In the old days, she would open a bottle of something at six on the dot. At her worst, she would drink from six until she passed out sometime later that evening. Now, the craving for alcohol would be palpable in the room as the clock inched toward six. Dinah wiped the sweat from her forehead with one hand and opened her Bible, which sat on the desk in front of her. Please God, give me strength, she prayed. I cannot do this on my own. She found her bookmark, opened her Bible, and read, “The temptations in your life are no different from what others experience. And God is faithful. He will not allow the temptation to be more than you can stand. When you are tempted, he will show you a way out so that you can endure” (1 Corinthians 10:13). 13

A Dinah Harris Mystery Thank you, God. With your help, I can overcome this. Dinah continued to read, immersing herself in the Book of Corinthians and refusing to allow her thoughts to dwell on her craving. When Dinah next looked at the wall clock, it was past eight o’clock and the worst of it had passed. ****

Ella Barnett was in the midst of making dinner and trying not to worry. Her life these days seemed to be one great worry after the next and she was, to be totally frank, exhausted. She thought about the day she had planned for tomorrow, and sighed. What was the use in making plans? In truth, her day consisted of fitting in work where she could, trying to keep the Columbia Heights house as clean as possible, which wasn’t easy under the circumstances, and taking care of her father. There was little time to even read a magazine, let alone have her hair done or go to a movie. Ella wiped her brow and caught sight of herself in the kitchen window. She was only 32 but she looked a decade older. Her long, brown hair had been allowed to do its own thing, rather than be styled, and her only concession was that she cut her bangs herself. Her green eyes looked tired, and her face was pale. Was that a new patchwork of wrinkles in the corners of her eyes? Probably. The door bell rang and fear struck the heart of Ella Barnett. She suddenly realized that she hadn’t checked on her father for some time. She rushed to answer it. Her neighbor, a kindly, middle-aged woman named Margaret, stood with her arm hooked securely around Ella’s father, John Barnett. The old man was wearing an undershirt and had put his underwear on over his long pants. He stared between Margaret and Ella, thoroughly confused. “I’m sorry, dear,” said Margaret. “He was in our garden.” “Oh, I’m sorry,” cried Ella. “I thought I’d secured all the windows. I should have checked in on him. I hope he didn’t give you a scare.” “Not at all, dear,” said Margaret. In burning embarrassment, Ella thought to herself that all her neighbors were probably used to it by now. Margaret nodded toward the kitchen. “I’ll take over in there, and you can get your father settled.” 14

The Shadowed Mind Ella would never have asked for help, but when offered, she gratefully accepted. “Thanks, Margaret, that would be wonderful.” She took her father by the arm and moved aside so that he could follow Margaret into the house. He looked at her suspiciously. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Where are you taking me?” “It’s me, Daddy,” said Ella. “Your daughter.” “Nonsense!” the old man declared. “I don’t have children! I’ve only just married.” He looked more closely at Ella. “Charlotte? What on earth have you done to your hair?” Ella didn’t reply. More frequently, he thought she was his wife, who’d died ten years earlier. More frequently, Ella didn’t correct him, because it lowered his resistance to her. “Dinner’s ready,” she said. “Would you like to sit at the table?” He at least allowed her to lead him to the dining room and he sat down. Margaret emerged from the kitchen with dinner and helped Ella serve the meal. “Would you like to stay for dinner?” Ella asked. “There is plenty.” “I’ve got to fix dinner for my family, but thank you anyway,” Margaret said. “Will you be okay here?” “Yes, thank you, Margaret.” Margaret nodded and smiled at both of them, then whisper quiet, slipped out the front door. Ella and John ate in silence. It would have been impossible to carry on a conversation of any meaning. John Barnett was suffering the final stages of Alzheimer’s disease, and he was rarely aware of the present anymore. His memory seemed to be stuck decades earlier, when he’d just married Charlotte, Ella’s mother, and had just landed a job in the bank, of which he eventually became president. As a result, he increasingly didn’t know who Ella was, and could become alarmingly hostile toward her. Ella glanced over at the once-proud man, hunched over his food. He had been a wonderful father — kind, compassionate, fair, and gentle. His world revolved around his family, and he taught Ella from a young age the things he believed most important: belief in God, pride in country, devotion to family, and to be honest and kind in all things. They had had a close relationship. He taught her to ride a bike and gently patched up her grazed knees when she fell 15

A Dinah Harris Mystery off. He took her hiking all through Virginia, pointing out different birds and teaching her how to find her way back if she got lost. In her teens, they’d had a monthly date where, over pancakes, he had taught her how potential suitors should treat her and why she should respect herself. Now, it wasn’t just that he didn’t know who she was. He no longer knew where home was, hence the nighttime escapes out of windows and treks through neighbors’ gardens; he forgot how to get dressed; he couldn’t have fixed a meal for himself. His independence had all but vanished, and Ella knew that the man he once was would have hated that. She saw he was looking at her, his confusion so great that it was pitiful. Ella felt a lump rise in her throat. “You’re not Charlotte, are you?” John said wretchedly. “I’m your daughter, Dad,” Ella said. “I’ll take care of you.” He seemed to mull over her words, and then his eyes flashed. Had he recognized her, deep in the shadows of his mind? “Am I home?” he asked. “Yes, Dad. You’re home and safe, I promise.” Ella reached over and took his hand. Thankfully, this seemed to satisfy him. When she took him up to his bedroom to get ready to go to sleep, he said to her thoughtfully, “If I did have a daughter, I’d want her to be just like you.” Ella held back her tears until she made it to her own bedroom. As she had done many times before, in helpless frustration, she inwardly shouted at the ceiling. This is so unfair! How could this happen to my father? As had always been before, she did not receive a reply. ****

He was back, stalking the decaying streets of northeast DC, but this time he had his eyes firmly fixed on his prey. This time, he wore an oversized, hooded sweatshirt and baggy, low-rise jeans. Other than his pale face, he blended into the neighborhood seamlessly. By now they were used to him. He had visited Lakeisha several times that week, taking her for a coffee and food, and paying her well for it. Her faceless boyfriend and the others in her small gang figured he was either a do-gooder hoping to get her off the street, or that he had a little thing 16

The Shadowed Mind for her. Either way, he suspected they all thought he was incapable of hurting a fly. This time, when Lakeisha saw him, she came trotting over eagerly. “Hi, Lakeisha, how are you?” he asked. “Hi,” she said. “Same drill tonight?” Not quite. “Yeah — let me guess, coffee, cheeseburger, and apple pie?” he asked, smiling at her. She hadn’t changed her diet and he ordered the same thing for her every time he saw her. “Onto a good thing, why change?” she shrugged. At the cafe, he watched her obscurely, committing every feature and detail to memory. He wanted to remember everything. During their discussions, he’d learned that Lakeisha had to get high to tolerate her life on the street. She hated herself — scrounging for food and worse, and she hated how she lived, but she would do it to obtain more heroin. She was almost apathetic now, having had it drummed into her head from a young age that she would never amount to anything. She had seemed to accept that this would be her lot in life, and that it would never improve. “How come you never told me your name?” she suddenly asked. So you could never mention it to anybody. “Didn’t think you were that interested,” he said. “Aren’t I just another social worker to you?” She considered. “Nope, you better than that. You don’t expect nothing from me.” “Well, just call me John,” he said. It wasn’t even close to his real name. She continued to eat and he continued to think about her history. Her boyfriend did indeed spend most of his life trying to obtain heroin for himself, and he was mean when he didn’t get it. He then gave her heroin when she needed it, and precious little else. If she did something he didn’t like, his favorite punishment was to get rough with her. When she showed some initiative or expressed a desire to get off the street, his favorite punishment was to withhold heroin. Her addiction to it was so great that she would beg and plead and agree to do anything as long as she received a hit. Fearful of having it withdrawn from her again, she would dutifully do as she was told. 17

A Dinah Harris Mystery He’d asked her if she was worried the heroin would kill her. She seemed resigned to that fate, too. She told him that if it wasn’t the heroin, it would be her boyfriend, and if it wasn’t him, it would be the street. He thought it was pitiful, but it didn’t lead to a welling of empathy or rage against the injustice of the world. It just made him more resolved to do what he needed to do. Surreptiously, he checked that the card in his pocket was still there. It would be an important part of the staging. “Well, gotta go,” she said with a sigh, finishing her coffee. He stood, too. “I’ll walk you back. It’s not safe,” he said. Lakeisha gave him a wry look that conveyed she was perfectly capable of looking after herself. Not tonight. The alleyway he picked was only a block away, and it was quiet and ill-frequented. The lighting there was particularly bad. He walked street side, so that she couldn’t try to escape in that direction. At the mouth of the alley, he grabbed her arm with sudden force. She swung around to look at him, bewildered hurt on her face. She hadn’t expected violence from him. “I have a gun,” he said, very quietly. “It has a silencer. I will use it if I have to.” She quickly grasped the rules and they moved into the dark alley. “You can take the money,” she said desperately. “Whatever you want. Please don’t hurt me.” It was funny, he thought, how someone completely accustomed to being hurt still had keen self-preservation instincts. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly, I am. But someone has to stop the cycle, you see.” She was momentarily confused, but was clearly concentrating on how to escape. She pulled out a small and deadly knife from the waistband of her skirt and lunged toward him. He dodged her, moved behind her, and seized her arm. Ruthlessly, he twisted it behind her until she cried out, dropping the knife to the ground. Still not giving up, she drove one boot heel into his shin and he let go of her, remarkably bright, glassy pain shooting through his leg. Making the most 18

The Shadowed Mind of her freedom, she ran toward the street. White-hot rage erupted through his veins, and he caught up with her — over-sized boots being completely impractical to run in. He had to end this, quickly. Finally, he subdued her and dragged her back to the original spot he’d picked out. It had to be exactly right. He was efficient. He was not a torturer. He didn’t do it for his own sick pleasure. He did it for the good of society. That was why he placed her body gently and respectfully sitting — well, slumping — against the wall of the tenement. He wrapped a cord around one of her upper arms. From a distance, she looked like one of many residents of the area, sleeping off a big hit of heroin. He slipped the card from his pocket and read it again, enjoying its simplistic message. He slid the card down one of her boots and stood back, drinking in the atmosphere. Then he left, as smoothly and quietly as he had come, his thoughts already turning to his next hunt.

19

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inah awoke, feeling clear-headed and rested. She glanced out the window as she passed and saw that it was a pristine day. Donning sweats and sneakers, she emerged from her apartment to go for a run. Part of her new regime was to exercise every day. The natural high she felt afterward from the endorphins were addictive, in a good way. She ran four miles, the farthest she’d been able to achieve so far. Back at home, after a hot shower, she made coffee and oatmeal for breakfast. While she ate and drank, she closed her eyes and tried to still her thoughts. In rehab, she’d been taught the skills of meditation. Even Dinah knew that one of her greatest enemies was her own mind, taunting her and challenging her to further self-destruct. Dinah was the first 20

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to admit she was hopeless at quieting her mind, but she spent several parts of each day trying to focus on stilling her thoughts and praying. Reading her Bible and praying had become one of the true treasures in her life, although she was the first to admit that there were days she struggled with motivation to do so. Learning to set aside time and headspace in order to pray and study was a completely new challenge for her. She had to learn to be comfortable with herself in her own skin without feeling the need to medicate herself in some way. She had been learning to put her trust in the newest relationship in her life — with God. The landline ringing shattered the illusion of peace and Dinah sprang up to answer it. “Dinah Harris speaking.” “Ms. Harris, this is Detective Samson Cage,” boomed a large voice. “I do believe we’ve met, briefly.” The name rang a bell, and after several seconds searching her memory, Dinah recalled the huge, black detective at the scene where Thomas Whitfield’s body had been found during the Smithsonian case. “Hi, Detective Cage,” she replied. “Yes, I’ve just worked out where I remember you from. How can I help you?” “Got myself a little situation,” explained the detective. “I heard you were hiring out.” Dinah hesitated. Her new policy was one of total honesty, but she still wasn’t sure when to bring it up. Was it too soon? Should she wait until she knew more about what he wanted from her? This was why she stayed away from relationships with people, she thought. They were far too hard. “Yes, I am. Would you like to meet somewhere?” she suggested. “There’s a Starbucks a few blocks away from where you live,” said Detective Cage. “In 30 minutes?” Dinah agreed and hung up. She suddenly felt nervous, as though she were going for a job interview. She looked at herself in the mirror in her bedroom. She no longer wore the severe black pantsuits she’d favored at the Bureau and today wore camel-colored slacks and a white button-up business shirt. She pulled her black hair into a ponytail and 21

A Dinah Harris Mystery inexpertly applied mascara and lip gloss. She noticed that her complexion was improving from a grey and sallow alcoholic to a look that was somehow more fresh and alive. It was only a ten-minute walk to the Starbucks, and Dinah arrived before Detective Cage. She ordered a frappe and waited for the big man to arrive. People took notice when he did. Detective Samson Cage was about six feet tall and was almost six feet wide, all muscle. His hair was cropped close to his head and he wore an authoritative expression that made people instinctively respect him. He filled out his somber suit impressively. He was not a person you messed with, Dinah thought. She stood to greet him, and they shook hands. He ordered a short black coffee and got straight to the point. “We had a murder last night,” Cage said, trying to grasp the small cup in his large bear paw of a hand. “And it’s not a normal one. Our killer left a message, and I can’t make head or tail of it.” “Let’s start at the beginning,” suggested Dinah. “Who was the victim?” “She was found by two uniforms on their beat, in an alleyway. She was propped against a building, a cord around her arm and a needle nearby. They very nearly walked away, thinking she’d just shot up and was sleeping. Luckily, one of the uniforms tried to find a pulse and realized that she was dead.” “No outward signs of violence?” Dinah asked. Cage shook his head. “No, they thought she had overdosed. They called the paramedics and it was only when she was moved that her head fell forward and they could see her neck was broken.” “Who was she?” “Name was Lakeisha Tennant, a street kid. Seventeen years old and a heavy heroin addict. She was covered in scar tissue from track marks.” Cage shook his head. “Don’t know why it still affects me, but every time I find one of these young girls on the street, it tears me up inside.” Dinah nodded sympathetically. She hadn’t expected to hear empathy from the big man, who looked wearily cynical, like he’d seen it all. “The uniforms found this tucked into one of her boots.” Cage passed a card to her, sealed inside a plastic evidence bag. 22

The Shadowed Mind Dinah looked closely at the card. It was a small generic sympathy card, with roses curling around the silver words on the front. Inside, the card was blank but there was something attached. Careful not to touch the card or its contents, she shook it a little and an old photograph fell out. It was sepia-toned, seemingly several decades old. The photo seemed to be something like a school class photograph — three rows of children, two adults flanking the middle row. On closer inspection, the children were all boys with similar, bowl-shaped haircuts and all wore the same dark-colored uniform. The two adults were male and appeared to be in their twenties. Both the boys and the men stared at the camera unsmilingly. Dinah flipped the photo over using only the edges, but there was nothing on the back of the photo. “So this was left by the killer?” she asked, staring again at the somber faces before her. “I believe so,” replied Cage. “It was shoved down her boot. I’ll check with her next-of-kin, but it’s my hunch that the killer left it behind to send some kind of message.” “And that’s why you need me?” Dinah asked, her mind already clicking into gear. “Right. Listen, this is only a gut instinct,” Cage said, leaning forward, “but the way this young girl was killed seemed a little off to me. Lots of street kids are killed by drug deals gone bad, or by gang members with a difference of opinion — their murders are usually pretty similar. There’s an element of rage, brought on by some perceived insult or contempt. There’s a degree of violence: usually a weapon of some description is used. This seems entirely too clean and cool. It makes me worry that we have a potential repeat offender.” Dinah nodded. She didn’t say anything but she agreed with Detective Cage. She looked up at him, waiting for her reply. She cleared her throat uneasily. “Detective, uh . . . I need to be honest with you,” she began. “I don’t know if you heard why I left the Bureau. I had some problems. . . .” “I know why you left,” Cage filled the awkward silence. “It doesn’t affect my opinion of you.” Dinah exhaled the breath she was holding. “I just need to tell you, okay? I was . . . I am an alcoholic. I’ve been through treatment and I’m clean. I thought you should know.” 23

A Dinah Harris Mystery Cage nodded. “I know, Harris. As I said, it doesn’t change my opinion of you.” Dinah felt strangely moved. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Cage’s cell phone trilled and he answered. Dinah waited, looking at the faces of the boys in the photo, trying to work out how old they were. They looked to be between six and eight, certainly no older than ten. Was that sadness in their faces that she could see? “That was the medical examiner,” Cage said, snapping the phone shut. “Want to come to the autopsy?” “You bet,” said Dinah, jumping up from the table. She was still thinking as they walked toward the unmarked vehicle about the photo of the sad-faced boys and how it ended up on the body of a sad-faced girl. ****

Dr. Gene Schlabach was the chief medical examiner for the city of Washington, DC, and had been for more than two decades. He was tall and pale, with a sandy-colored crewcut, prominent cheekbones, and a quiet, shy manner. He simply nodded at them by way of greeting and continued to dictate observations and notes from the autopsy into his Dictaphone. Dinah and Cage slipped on the protective clothing that was now required by the morgue and waited for Dr. Schlabach to finish his notes. The body of Lakeisha Tennant lay on a steel trolley in the middle of the room. Her youth was achingly obvious in the frailty of her frame. Dinah observed that there were no apparent signs of violence on the girl and could see why strangers might have passed her by without checking on her. She watched Dr. Schlabach prepare his notes. He spoke reverently and gently of his dead charges, as if they could hear him. “Lakeisha Tennant, aged 17,” he began, after greeting Cage and Dinah. “No immediate or obvious cause of death until I caught the angle of her neck.” He moved the head to the side, and Dinah observed how easily it fell to an unnatural angle. “The neck has been cleanly broken,” Dr. Schlabach said. “Not unlike a break caused by the hangman’s noose. The bone broken is 24

The Shadowed Mind known as the axis, and when broken, severs the spinal cord. Blood pressure drops dramatically and the victim would have lost consciousness almost immediately. Complete death could have taken another 30 minutes or so, although I suspect it was much sooner. I understand she was found in an alley?” “Yes. She was propped up against a building, and made to look like she was sleeping off a fix,” said Cage. “Would it require some force to break that bone?” “It requires specialist knowledge,” explained Dr. Schlabach. “It can be done by force of torsion, which is what I think happened here.” He demonstrated the twisting motion required to break the axis bone. “The victim is a young girl with very little strength. It wouldn’t be difficult for a bigger, stronger male to overpower her. He would only need to approach her from behind to have the upper hand. However, he would need to know the exact angle and force required to execute such a move, which is why I’m suggesting specialist knowledge.” “Were there any other signs of violence?” Cage asked. Dr. Schlabach turned on the x-ray lights, against which several x-rays were illuminated. “Depends on what you mean by violence. I couldn’t find any other reason for her death. There was no trauma sustained directly prior to her death apart from some bruising on her arms which look defensive. It’s common in murder victims to find bruising on the arms or torso where the victim has been trying to fight or run away. Otherwise, she was certainly subjected to violence over a long period of time.” He gestured at the x-rays. “Both arms have multiple fractures, all of which are old and healed. There is an old fracture to her clavicle, or collarbone. Her nose has been broken in the past. There was evidence of an old depressed eye socket injury.” “So she’s been beaten up?” Cage asked. “Yes, for a prolonged period.” Dr. Schlabach pointed to some large, purplish marks on the girl’s torso and thighs. “You can see old bruise patterns, probably inflicted a week or two ago.” “I suppose it’s not surprising,” Cage commented. “She was a homeless kid, and probably had a mean boyfriend.” Dr. Schlabach nodded. “There was evidence of long-term and chronic heroin abuse. Apart from the track marks apparent on her 25

A Dinah Harris Mystery arms, legs, and stomach, I found literally a network of collapsed veins all over her body. Her teeth were rotting away. She was clearly malnourished. There were obvious signs of early brain damage. These are all results of using heroin. Blood tests may reveal further health problems, such as hepatitis or even HIV. It’s extremely sad to see all of these things in such a young girl.” Dinah couldn’t help but share Dr. Schlabach’s sadness. In her short life, Lakeisha Tennant had known violence, rejection, and drug addiction. Had she ever experienced the love of a mother or the thrill of riding on a rollercoaster? Had she ever been taken to the beach on a warm summer day? Had she experienced the sheer girlish glee of waking up on Christmas morning, knowing that a multitude of gifts awaited? “Did you find any forensic evidence that might help us?” Cage asked. Dr. Schlabach shook his head. “It was a clean kill, unfortunately. I didn’t find any foreign hair, fibers, or DNA on her body whatsoever. I only found the usual detritus of the street. Perhaps your lab technicians found something from the crime scene itself that will help.” Cage nodded and they made preparations to leave the morgue. Dinah took one last look at the rail-thin, scarred body of Lakeisha Tennant and vowed to find the person responsible for ending the young girl’s life. ****

Ella Barnett dreaded the trip to the supermarket, but today she feared it even more than usual. Previously she had left her father at home, reasonably sure that he would at least be there when she got back. Now, given his skills at escaping and the potential for injury, she had no choice but to take him with her. It had taken several hours to ensure that her father had been fed, showered, and dressed. Ella had never had children, but she guessed it was like trying to feed, shower, and dress a large, strong, hostile toddler. By the time they were ready to leave the house, she was exhausted. “Where are we going?” John asked, in the car on the way to the grocery store. “We’re going to pick up some groceries,” Ella said. 26

The Shadowed Mind “I don’t know why I have to come,” John grumbled. “Charlotte always managed to do the grocery shopping on her own.” Ella glanced at her father curiously. Was he having a clear, lucid moment? “I know Mom did,” she said. “I just wanted to spend some time with my dad.” John looked at her and seemed to see through the shadows in recognition. “You’re my daughter,” he said as if he’d just had a light bulb moment, and Ella’s heart broke. “Yes, Daddy, it’s me!” She grasped his hand and squeezed. She felt lighter than she had in weeks. They drove in companionable silence, and Ella thought that the trip to the store wouldn’t be as bad as she thought. They began to do their shopping, and although holding down a conversation was too much for John, Ella was just as happy to be operating in relative normalcy. She was squeezing grapefruit when she suddenly realized that her father was no longer by her side. Her stomach dropped and she spun wildly, searching for him. Thankfully, he was only a few strides away but he was staring curiously at two young boys of about seven and eight respectively, who were with their mother. Warning bells started sounding in her head. The mother of the boys had now noticed John’s interest and she began to look concerned. Ella knew she had to intervene immediately. “Peter, is that you?” John suddenly asked, loudly. He was staring at the older of the two boys. The boy flinched, and looked at his mother for guidance. His mother frowned. Ella took her father’s arm. “Daddy, let’s go, please.” “Peter, I know it’s you!” “Mom?” the boy said. “Peter! Please let me explain!” “Daddy, please! We have to go.” John shook his daughter away and advanced even farther on the hapless boy. “Peter, please, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” shouted John. “Stop crying, Peter!” “What on earth is going on?” demanded the boy’s mother, stepping in front of her son protectively. 27

A Dinah Harris Mystery Ella tried to take her father’s arm again. “I’m very sorry,” she said desperately. “He’s not well. He thinks he knows your son.” “He better not know my son,” the mother said ominously. “He’s scaring him. You need to leave right now.” “Peter, please. Stop running away from me!” “Get him away from us, now!” The mother’s voice was raised and shrill. Ella noted that a crowd had gathered around, to her horror. She fought back tears and tried to drag her father away from the frightened boys. “He has Alzheimer’s,” Ella tried to explain, frantically to the crowd. “He’s stuck in the past. He’s not himself.” Finally a security guard appeared. “What’s going on?” “You need to get this man out of here,” cried the mother, clutching her two children protectively to her side. “He’s scaring us.” “It’s not his fault,” said Ella, trying to make herself heard. “He’s a very sick old man. Please be careful.” Thankfully, the guard was strong enough to take the resisting man out of the store. Ella desperately wished she could walk in the other direction and never have to deal with this situation again. “I’m sorry,” she said again to the mother of the boys. “He has Alzheimer’s. He is very sick.” The mother looked shaken. “I’m sorry to hear that. But he needs to be kept away from the public, if he’s going to be threatening and aggressive.” Thoroughly chastened, Ella hurried past the crowd, all of whom were muttering to themselves and staring at her. Outside, John was demanding to know what he’d done wrong. “Don’t you know who I am?” he asked the guard. “I am the president of the First National Bank. You have no right to treat me this way!” The guard saw Ella and was visibly relieved. “Listen, lady, we can’t have that sort of disturbance in this store.” “I’m sorry,” said Ella. “He has Alzheimer’s. He is very sick and doesn’t know what he’s doing.” “Even so,” said the guard. “If he’s going to act like that, you can’t bring him here. Understand?” 28

The Shadowed Mind “Okay, okay,” said Ella. “I get it.” She grabbed her father, more harshly than normal, and returned to the car. Once driving, Ella unleashed her humiliation, frustration, and fury. “How could you do that to me?” she yelled. “Why can’t you just behave normally? What is wrong with you?” She slammed her hands on the steering wheel while hot tears streamed down her face. John seemed not to have heard. He himself had tears in his eyes. “Why wouldn’t Peter listen to me? I didn’t mean to hurt him.” “Just shut up about Peter! I’m sick of hearing about it. You don’t know any boys named Peter, okay?” John again lapsed into silence and as Ella’s anger faded, guilt rushed in to replace it. She was yelling at an old man with a terrible disease. His behavior was not his fault. Had he been aware of his surroundings, he would never behave in this manner. At home, without groceries, Ella settled her father onto the couch with a cup of hot tea, and then took herself upstairs to have a hot shower. As the water pounded on her shoulders, Ella wondered how much more of this she could take. ****

The killer waited in the lobby, dressed once again in his suit, silk tie, and Italian leather shoes. Today he wore steel-framed glasses and looked like a dashing, intelligent reporter, which was precisely the look he was trying to pull off. He was waiting in the anteroom of a halfway house for the mentally ill. The room was old and faded, lit with harsh fluorescent lights, and was scrupulously clean. The receptionist/nurse had disappeared to find the head of the facility. The killer had researched the facility thoroughly and had picked this one due to its strict three-strike policy. Finally, he was greeted by a portly, kind-faced man in his sixties who introduced himself as Reverend Stephen Notting. “I’m the director here,” he explained in a faint English accent. “What is it you want to write your story about?” The killer adjusted his glasses. “I’m doing a public interest story on the good Samaritans in our community who are helping the less fortunate. I will be doing a number of articles about different organizations. You’ll probably be the first in the series.” 29

A Dinah Harris Mystery Notting nodded. “Well, of course I’m very proud of the work we do here and happy to talk your ear off about it.” “How did it start?” “I had a parish in the heart of the city,” explained Notting. He guided the killer into the back of the building, where the bedrooms, common kitchen, living rooms, and recreational rooms were located. “I came across a huge number of people struggling with mental illness, many of whom were homeless.” “Shouldn’t they go to a hospital?” the killer asked, feigning interest. “Many of them had been in and out of the hospital. The problem is that the treatment and medication for these conditions is expensive. Many of them can’t hold a job very well due to their conditions, particularly if they are unmedicated. Without jobs, they can’t afford housing and they end up on the streets.” “That’s where you come in?” “Right.” Notting showed him the recreational room, which was filled with books, couches, a TV, a table tennis table, and pool table. There were people of varying ages, ethnicities, and both sexes occupying space there. “We offer a place to stay and a treatment program. We’re not a jail or a hospital, so people can come and go as they please. Once the treatment has stabilized their condition, we help with jobs and finding their own place to stay. At this point, we have an outpatient service that checks in on them frequently to make sure they’re doing well.” “Isn’t one of the major problems of mental illness getting the patient to take his or her medications properly?” Notting opened the door to the commercial kitchen, which served meals en masse. “You’re right. We have a three-strike policy, because demand for our services is so high. We work with people who want to get better but haven’t been able to afford the treatments in the past. Of course, there are many reasons why medication is stopped or isn’t quite right, so all of these factors are taken into account before we ask someone to leave. Medication in particular can be tricky to calibrate in exact doses because each patient is unique.” “What kind of illnesses do you treat?” The director now led the killer into one of the individual rooms, a bedroom with two single beds and some other sparse furnishings. 30

The Shadowed Mind The beds were made with military precision, the floor uncluttered and clean, and without so much as a single speck of dust visible. “We treat schizophrenia, bipolar, personality disorders, anxiety disorders, post-traumatic stress disorder, and depression,” the reverend replied. “Often patients have a combination of disorders. The treatment we provide includes medication, psychiatry, and therapy — again, often in combination.” The killer felt very happy with his choice of facility. This would be just perfect. “Would I be permitted to speak with some of the residents?” he asked. “Yes, if they agree. I would ask that you keep their identities private,” agreed Notting. “There is still stigma associated with mental illness in our society, and I don’t want to cause problems for our patients.” That wouldn’t be a problem, reflected the killer. One unlucky patient would probably have his or her identity revealed, but would be dead at the time so probably wouldn’t care one way or the other. “I have a particular interest,” he told Notting. “I am very interested in meeting one of your patients who might have used up one or two of their strikes. I’d like to discover what makes a person rebel, so to speak, against an organization that is trying to help them.” “I see. Well, I’m sure that won’t be a problem. I can find a few of them and one of them is bound to be happy to talk to you.” Notting led him back into the recreational room and instructed him to sit on an unused couch. Then he moved around the room, quietly greeting and speaking to his patients. Eventually a man in his late thirties or early forties approached the killer. He was built slightly, with thinning blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a frown that looked like it never went away. “You the reporter?” he asked. “Yes. What’s your name?” “Ben Steffan.” The man sat and intertwined his fingers together nervously. “And what brings you here?” “Paranoid schizophrenia,” said Ben. The killer smiled. Perfect.

31

D

etective Samson Cage picked up Dinah that evening from outside her apartment in an unmarked police car. He wanted a firsthand view of the alleyway in which Lakeisha Tennant’s body had been found. He figured that any witnesses were likely to be in the region at nighttime, rather than during the day. Cage drove precisely on the speed limit and was courteous and generous toward other drivers. He was the polar opposite of her own driving style, Dinah thought. She weaved in and out of lanes, looking for the fastest route, leaned on her horn frequently, and often yelled angrily when cut off or when some other slight was committed against her. She had vowed to take a more laidback approach in the future but it was an ingrained part of her personality that was going to be hard to 32

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change. Cage’s patient driving actually irritated her, so she sat on her hands and tried to relax. Cage also felt no particular need to fill the silence in the car, so Dinah asked, “Do you work with a partner?” Cage shrugged. “Most of the time, I don’t. Occasionally I get lumped with someone. I prefer to work alone.” “Really?” Dinah was intrigued. She had always enjoyed working with a partner, someone to bounce ideas around with and offer opinions from a different point of view. She knew it was also the preferred method of most law enforcement agencies for their investigators to work in pairs or groups. “How do you get away with that?” Cage shrugged again. “I’ve earned my stripes,” he said matter-of-factly. “I have one of the highest case clearance rates. They leave me alone.” He didn’t seem to want to talk about it. Dinah wondered if there was something he was hiding. She had no more time to wonder, as they arrived at their destination, a neighborhood in decay. The night was young, but the wares were already on the market, two or three girls on each corner. The streets were full of cars cruising slowly, searching for their own particular brand of addiction. Farther back, in the darkened alleyways, the dealers waited, nonchalantly confident of a busy night. Cage parked and drew his enormous frame from the car. Dinah noted that they were on a block just like any other, the corner where Lakeisha Tennant had likely looked for her next fix several hundred feet away, and in the opposite direction, the alley in which her body had been found. Cage first showed her the alley. It was occupied by both dealer and addict alike, all of whom fled the second they saw the big detective. “I see you’re famous in these parts,” commented Dinah. Cage grinned briefly, his teeth flashing white in the gloom. “Here is where we found her,” he said, gesturing at the side of a cinderblock tenement. “Propped up against the wall, a cord tied around her arm and a needle nearby. Set up to look like an addict to any passersby.” Dinah nodded. “What about those that knew her — the friends she hung out with? Would they have expected her to come back?” 33

A Dinah Harris Mystery “It depends,” Cage replied. “Most of the girls around here are addicts. If they somehow get hold of some cash or smack they could likely take advantage of it and sleep it off. I don’t know if they keep very close tabs on each other.” Dinah studied the dim alley in silence for a few moments. Yellow police tape marked the spot where the girl had been found, but she could see obtaining forensic evidence would be almost impossible. The alley was littered with the waste of broken human lives. “What about her boyfriend?” Dinah asked. “Wouldn’t he have cared a little about where she was?” “He probably did know where she was,” said Cage, rubbing stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “But there isn’t much you can do with an addict sleeping off heroin. So he probably decided to wait her out and then make her pay for it later.” “Shall we talk to her friends?” Cage suggested, after he’d given Dinah time to look over the scene. “Of course. Just one question. Are there always people frequenting these alleys? Would the killer have been working quickly to avoid detection or would he have had time?” Dinah asked. From her position, where the body had been found, she was in relative darkness. She would be undetectable from the street, particularly in this mind-yourown-business neighborhood, but was visible from within the alley itself. “We’ve speculated that the murder took place at about two a.m.,” replied Cage. He glanced at his watch. “It’s nine now, and there are plenty of people around, but the activity drops off the later it gets. Even the dealers have usually done their business by about midnight. So while there were probably still people out and about on the street, this alleyway could well have been deserted.” Dinah filed this information away. The killer clearly knew how the life on the street in these parts worked. Dinah and Cage emerged onto the street and approached the girls standing on the corner. There were three, and not one of them could have been older than about 20. They swaggered with false bravado, but Dinah could see the hopelessness etched in their weary eyes. They watched them approach with interest, but as soon as Cage flashed his badge, they turned to leave. 34

The Shadowed Mind “Wait a minute, girls,” he said. “I’m not here to bust you. I want to know what you know about Lakeisha Tennant.” The tallest girl looked at him mistrustfully. “I ain’t standin’ around talkin’ all night.” “Did you know Lakeisha Tennant?” asked Cage. “Yeah, hung out with her some.” The girls seemed tough and indifferent talking about Tennant’s death, but Dinah could almost smell the fear and anxiety they sought to hide. Their eyes darted endlessly, as if they were watching out for danger, not knowing that danger stalked them without respite. “What happened the night she died?” Cage asked. He carried a small notebook, but seemed to commit everything to memory. “The player with scary eyes,” one of the other girls said. “She had a deal with this dude. He’d pick her up and take her for coffee. Gave her some cash for eatin’ a cheeseburger with him.” “How often did she do this?” Dinah asked. “Every second night. We thought he was social worker or somethin’. Or that he was sweet on her.” “You get social workers or charity workers down here a lot?” Cage inquired. “Sure,” the girl shrugged. “Always tryin’ to do deals with us. Helpin’ us depends on what they want us to do in return.” “So she saw this guy the night she died?” “He was with her; we never saw her again.” “What happened, exactly?” probed Cage. He watched them intently. “He came cruisin’ down the street. . . .” “In a car?” “Nope. On his own legs, man.” The girls smirked. “They went down there.” She pointed behind her, in a southerly direction. “And she would usually come back? How long were they gone for?” Cage pressed. “Only gone a half hour. Always she would come back, talkin’ about the money he gave her, and she could buy her stuff.” “Because she didn’t have to do anything for it?” Dinah asked. “Yeah, plus he bought her food, like a cheeseburger.” Dinah and Cage glanced at each other. “So this guy, was he white or black?” Cage continued. 35

A Dinah Harris Mystery “White. Tall. Skinny. Scary eyes. That about it, man.” “What made his eyes scary?” The girls considered. “They were dead, man,” one of them finally said. “Yeah, like, flat,” chimed in another. “He looked right through you, know what I’m sayin’?” “What color were they?” asked Cage. There were a few more moments of consideration. “Light,” one said. “Maybe blue.” The other girls nodded emphatically. Cage and Dinah glanced at each other, their run of questions complete. The girls stood, staring at Cage. Then one of them said, “Man, we be talkin’ to you a whole 15 minutes.” Cage just smiled. “Girls, I’ll bet you’ve got drugs on you, so be thankful I’m not busting you. Now be safe tonight, you hear?” They pouted and groaned and then pranced away toward another evening of heartbreak. “Well that narrows it down,” said Dinah sardonically. “We’re looking for a man with scary eyes.” Cage smiled. “Well, it’s a start.” ****

Senator David Winters couldn’t think of a more apt place to hold the meeting. The little cabin, built in rural Virginia, smacked of a survivalist, anti-government kind of crazy. In fact, he decided it couldn’t be rightly described as a cabin; in reality it was a bunker. Worse still was the motley crew awaiting his arrival. He was dressed in a double-breasted woolen suit, silk tie, and gold and diamond cuff links. His audience wore a varied range of clothing, from military boots and black death-metal T-shirts to housewife aprons, and some feathered, hippie, boa thing wrapped around one woman’s neck. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t be seen dead with these kinds of people. Yet they were his allies, for they needed each other. They called themselves the Movement, and nobody outside the group even knew they existed. Their mission was an insidious one: no overt attempts to achieve their goals. They wanted their society to change from the inside 36

The Shadowed Mind out, so subtly that nobody else would even realize it was happening. That was why they’d enlisted the help of Senator Winters, a man powerful enough to reach that end. For the senator, who had access to power but was cash-poor, it helped tremendously that several members of the Movement were wealthy and could compensate him for his efforts in the Senate. “He’s here,” a voice said in the midst of the group, and all turned to look at Senator Winters. Suppressing his contempt and repulsion for these people, Winters gave a jaunty wave and went to the front of the room. The leader of the group, a portly, ageing hippie named Eddie, stood with him and raised his arm in a salute not unlike the one the Nazis had adopted. “America must remain American,” he intoned. The group all returned the salute and repeated, “America must remain American.” Winters suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. For Pete’s sake, he thought. These losers think that copying something one of their heroes, President Calvin Coolidge, said after signing an anti-immigration act, made them hardcore eugenicists. At least for now, they were concerned with another act, one they hoped Senator Winters would help pass. Eddie then explained to the group, “For those who need a recap of what we’re trying to achieve, Senator Winters will be helping us introduce a relaxation of the law surrounding assisted suicide. Senator?” Winters took over. He spoke quickly, wanting to be able to leave as soon as possible. “As discussed, I’ve introduced a provision encompassing the following: all patients who express a desire to die must undergo counseling for a minimum period of time; the diagnosis of a terminal illness or condition must be confirmed by three specialist doctors; and any next-of-kin who wish to be present at the assisted suicide must also undergo counseling and sign an acknowledgement form. It will no longer be illegal to be present at a loved one’s suicide.” “So it’s been added to the Health Reform Bill without any disagreement?” Eddie asked. “I can confirm that. As you know, the Health Reform Bill proposes an enormous upheaval to the current health system,” Winters 37

A Dinah Harris Mystery said. “There are a large number of areas within the health system facing change. That’s the beauty of making sure we’ve inserted assisted suicide into this bill in particular. It’s so huge that our little amendment is likely to be missed.” “What’s the greatest hurdle you face?” Eddie inquired. “If we can keep the media and the public unaware of it, the battle is half-won,” replied Winters. “Senators are far more likely to vote for a bill if their electorate is either supportive or unaware of such a controversial issue.” “Which senators will you be able to get on board?” a woman named Susan Epping asked. She was the treasurer of the group and kept the finances in a vice-like grip. Winters reflected sourly to himself that getting the money out of her once the bill was passed would be the hardest part of his task. “Most of the liberal senators will vote for the bill, given their support of the presidential desire to overhaul the health system. However, we can’t forget that even these senators may come from a state where euthanasia is widely unsupported. A senator’s first priority is getting re-elected, and this means following what the majority of his or her electorate wants. The last thing a senator wants to do is vote for this bill despite knowing that his electorate wouldn’t support it, and then have it exposed in the media. So my main priority is to keep the assisted suicide section pretty low-key so that they don’t even realize it’s there. As for the conservatives, I think we can forget it. There would be very few conservative senators even willing to discuss the issue, let alone vote for it.” “But there will be senators who do read the whole bill, or have their staff do so,” added Eddie. “So you may not be able to keep it as quiet as we would want.” “True,” agreed Winters. He wished vehemently that Eddie wouldn’t think or speak. “I have plans in place to deal with any eventuality, should it occur.” “What will you do if the conservatives or the media somehow find out about it?” someone else in the group asked. “Will it get back to us? It is vitally important that we operate in total secrecy.” Paranoid loser, thought Winters. Silently he cursed his cash flow problems. 38

The Shadowed Mind “As I said, I have plans in place for any eventuality,” he said finally. “The fewer people who know about them, the better.” “I’d have thought we would be in a position to know,” grumbled Eddie. “Given our support of you?” Winters knew the hidden meaning of that comment revolved around the money that would change hands. The knowledge that Winters was being paid was limited to a very few. Many of the members of the Movement were anti-capitalists and thought Winters should be helping them as a matter of principle. That was probably the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. He shrugged. “It’s my way or the highway. I know the Senate; you don’t. You’ll have to trust me.” This was true. The Movement had no other way of accessing the Senate so directly. The group wanted him to stick around to discuss some other ideas they had, but Winters couldn’t think of anything worse. He declined and kept an expression of disgust off his face with only the greatest effort. As he drove away, he entertained the thought of dousing the bunker with gasoline and setting fire to it at their next meeting so that he wouldn’t have to deal with those people again. Maybe once it’s all over, he mused. The thought gave him a warm glow. ****

The killer arrived at the halfway house sporting a notebook, camera, and tape recorder, the necessary tools of any journalist. The director, Reverend Stephen Notting, was happy to get publicity for the place and so he had allowed the killer free reign. His chosen prey, Ben Steffan, had readily agreed to talk to him about his illness and the struggles he was facing, proclaiming that he wasn’t ashamed of his condition and that the public needed further education to eradicate the social stigma associated with mental illness. The killer became so infuriated by Steffan’s monologue that he nearly broke his neck right then and there. He managed to calm himself down and arrange a proper interview to be held in the common room of the halfway house. 39

A Dinah Harris Mystery Steffan was built like an ostrich, thought the killer as the other man led him into the common room. He had a long, skinny neck atop which sat a round, bobbing head complete with fluffy scraps of hair. His blue eyes were large and unblinking and his forehead permanently furrowed. They sat at a long table and Steffan brought over two cups of coffee, which tasted awful. The killer slapped on a friendly, compassionate facial expression and opened his notebook. “So,” he began, “as the Reverend may have explained, my story is on this facility and those who live here. Basically I’m interested in why you’re here, your experiences here, and what you plan to do when you leave. Your privacy will be as tightly controlled as you wish. Do you have any questions?” Ben shook his head. “Is it all right to turn this on?” The killer motioned toward the recorder. Ben nodded. The big staring eyes were starting to get to the killer. He cleared his throat. “So when and where did this all start?” “I started to cycle downward from about the age of 15,” Steffan told him. He spoke with the practiced air of someone who’d been to a lot of therapy and discussed his condition many times. “I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I saw and heard things differently than my classmates. I found a level of complexity in our lessons that nobody else seemed to grasp. Yet I didn’t understand the simplicity of what they were trying to teach me. My teachers were baffled — I was clearly intelligent and yet I was unable to learn. Anyway, I drifted through high school and started an art major at college. Art was a great outlet for me; I could put down on paper the things I saw in my head.” “Mmm-hmmm,” said the killer, pretending to jot down notes. He watched the Adam’s apple bob up and down on Steffan’s skinny throat and dreamed of twisting it until he fell lifeless to the floor. “I had my first psychotic break at 19,” continued Steffan. “I found myself involuntarily committed to a psychiatric ward at the Washington hospital here in DC. I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia.” 40

The Shadowed Mind “What does that mean?” the killer asked, his interest piqued despite himself. “I suffer from auditory and visual hallucinations,” explained Steffan. “Or as they say in the movies, I hear voices. I see things that aren’t there. All the hallucinations try to convince me that I’m in danger or that those around me are trying to hurt me or that the government is hunting me. I have to work out what is real and what is false.” “Is that hard?” “Without medication, it’s impossible,” said Steffan. “I would have a reasonable conversation with somebody only to learn that they didn’t exist. So I would walk around not daring to speak to anybody, fearing that none of them existed. Then I would become paranoid that nobody except me existed and that I was all alone. The only way that could have happened was if the world had ended. That is my train of thinking, because my brain is constantly playing tricks on me.” “What medication do you take?” “Anti-psychotics,” said Steffan. “It tones down the hallucinations and helps me focus. But there are side effects.” He held up his hands, which shook uncontrollably with tremors. On a sidetrack, he asked, “Did you know that schizophrenia is often inherited?” Yes, I did, thought the killer. Why do you think I chose you? “Looking back I can see my mother definitely suffered from it,” confided Steffan. “She was undiagnosed and extremely unstable. She was a very scary person when I was a little kid. You just never knew what was coming next.” “Where is she now?” “Oh, she committed suicide when I was 12,” said Steffan. He blinked, but that was the only indication on his otherwise expressionless face that he felt any emotion over this revelation. “Did you know that the attempted suicide rate for schizophrenics is extremely high, up to 50 times higher than the rest of the population?” “I didn’t know that,” admitted the killer. “What happened to the rest of your family?” “Dad was pretty ill-equipped to deal with me and my brother on his own. We spent large chunks of time with relatives who would agree to look after us for a period, and then we’d move on when they got sick of us. When I was diagnosed, I think my father relived the trauma of 41

A Dinah Harris Mystery his life with Mom and didn’t want anything to do with me. He couldn’t handle any more of it.” The killer actually made some notes — no mother, disjointed childhood, estranged father. Everything was going beautifully. “So tell me about the three-strikes policy here,” suggested the killer. “I understand you’ve already used up two strikes.” “One of the features of schizophrenia is the belief that there is actually nothing wrong,” explained Steffan. “And the medications cause some pretty bad side-effects. So when I’m on medication, I feel fine and I can function normally, and I start to think that I’ve got it all under control and that I don’t need the medication anymore. I stop taking it, which causes the hallucinations to flare up, and the paranoia sets in. I start to think that they’re trying to poison me or implant microchips in my brain or something. I freak out and go AWOL. One of the biggest victories schizophrenics can have is to understand and accept that medication will be a daily part of their lives, for the rest of their lives. I don’t think I’ve come to terms with that yet, which is why I’ve struck out twice.” “How fascinating,” said the killer, thinking that for Ben Steffan it would cease to be a problem in the very near future. “Do you think there will be a third time?” “I hope not,” replied Ben. “This place has been really good for me. It’s not just the medication I need, but also the insight and understanding that comes from therapy. Outside, I would never be able to afford the therapy I need. So I’m now determined not to go off my medication again.” “Great. You know, this is just so interesting,” commented the killer, which wasn’t a lie. “I hope you don’t mind if I come back to speak to you some more?” “Wow, I’m like, going to be famous!” said Ben, happily. You certainly will be, but not for the reasons you think. ****

Dinah arrived back at her apartment in the early evening and set about trying to make dinner. She’d always been hopeless in the kitchen, but she had decided it was time to learn. It couldn’t be that difficult. 42

The Shadowed Mind Tonight she had a recipe for a basic chicken and vegetable stir fry, flavored with basil. Dinah carefully chopped up snow peas, sugar snap peas, and baby corn, added some diced chicken and stock, and left it to simmer. While it was on the stove, she picked up a copy of the photo of the boys that had been left on the body of Lakeisha Tennant. The photo was black and white and so had to be several decades old. The way in which the boys were dressed supported that assumption. Their uniforms seemed to be heavy and non-descript, shapeless and ill-fitting. The two men who stood at either end were also unsmiling, and both wore identical uniforms that weren’t much better than those of the boys. Dinah frowned. If it was a school photo, it made sense that the boys wore uniforms — but why would the teachers all wear the same thing? It was understandable if the school was run by nuns or priests, but the uniform the two men wore was definitely not from a church. In fact, they looked almost military-like: old-fashioned combat boots, tunic-like jackets and heavy belts. Perhaps the facility was a military school or boot camp, like the ones where they send rebellious kids these days. Dinah considered it. It was certainly a possibility. She stared harder at the photo and noted that the boys all wore the same haircut, the classic bowl cut. It was possible that boys in that time all did have the same haircut, but there was something so identical about the boys that Dinah had a nagging suspicion they had their hair cut at the school. Was it perhaps a boarding school? Usually schools had a grade level and year plaque though. This photo had no such identifying markers. Dinah drummed her fingers on the desk, thinking hard. How would she find out where the school was located and who the boys in the picture were? Or even what year the photo had been taken. Suddenly the smoke alarm in the kitchen screeched into action, startling Dinah badly. Dinner! She rushed into the kitchen and saw a blackened, smoking mess leaking all over the stove and the air full of haze. Holding back several curse words that immediately came to mind, Dinah tried to put the ruined wok into the sink and burned her fingers. She yelled and felt her temper rise like steam escaping from a boiling kettle. 43

A Dinah Harris Mystery With one hand jammed into the freezer on a packet of frozen peas to treat the burns, Dinah used her other hand with the dishtowel to flap at the smoke alarm, trying to coax it into silence. It ignored her. Finally with desperate frustration, she screamed: “Shut up!” The smoke alarm, at that exact moment, fell still. Then she heard her neighbor, a cantankerous old man who spent his time snooping out of his windows, thud on their shared wall and yell back, “You shut up!” Dinah took several deep breaths, closing her eyes and trying to control her temper. It didn’t work. She was too angry that she’d ruined dinner, she’d lost her train of thought in regard to the crime scene photo, her fingers ached, and she just really badly wanted a drink. It’s not fair! she stormed to herself. Anyone else who is stressed can just have a glass of wine. Why is this such a problem for me? Restless, Dinah roamed the house, trying not to think of the overwhelming desire to drink and trying to ignore the self-pitying voice in her head. Then she jammed her feet into her sneakers and threw on an old sweatshirt, determined to run off the anger. As she ran, she thought about her own volatility. She was constantly on edge, waiting to fall over the precipice. It was ridiculous that something as inane as burning dinner could have such a profound effect on her. Had she been this angry while she was an alcoholic and not realized it because she was always numb? Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking, she commanded herself. She tried to empty her mind and focus on running. She rounded the final corner to head home and suddenly stopped. In front of her loomed the liquor store where she had been a frequent customer only a few short months ago. She’d known the layout intimately. She’d known where to find her favorite wines and vodka. It had been a place of comfort to her, like a library to a booklover, or a theater to a movie buff. Dinah swallowed and wiped sweat from her brow. She stared, tortured and besieged, at the glowing neon lights. I have to go. I must go. Time to go home. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to move in any direction except toward the doors of the liquor store. She put her hand in her pocket and suddenly realized she hadn’t brought her purse with her. Then, 44

The Shadowed Mind startled, she thought how close she’d come to actually setting foot in the liquor store. Dinah backed away and began sprinting toward her apartment. Inside, she was crushed with guilt and disappointment and self-loathing. Once home, she ignored the mess in the kitchen and threw herself on her bed. Lord, I can’t do it, I just can’t do it. Dinah was overcome with feelings of frustration and impotence. Finally, she picked up her cell phone and dialed her mentor. Faith Kuijt had been a trained addiction counselor for many years, but the main reason Dinah had connected with her was because she was a Christian. The facility in which she’d completed her rehabilitation had been a Christian organization, and it made sense that their outpatient counselors were also Christians. “Hello?” Faith answered, her warm voice infused with compassion. “It’s Dinah . . . I’m having some trouble.” Dinah’s voice was shaky as she explained the kitchen incident, followed by the temptation she’d faced outside the liquor store. “I don’t know why I’m so angry. It’s such a small thing, yet I completely lost it. And the first thing I want to do is drink to calm down.” “I understand,” said Faith. “What you’re experiencing is perfectly normal on the road to recovery. The most important thing you can do is reach out for help when you feel this way. Perhaps you should have rung me instead of going for a run.” Faith’s sensible approach soothed Dinah and she felt the tension begin to slowly melt away. “Listen,” said Faith. “I’d like to point something out to you. Anger that is uncontrolled is dangerous for many people, but is lethal for you. Psalm 37:8 says to forsake anger, for it only brings harm. In your case, anger is a pathway down which you will find yourself drinking again. Do you understand?” Dinah sighed. “Yes, I do. If I don’t get my temper under control, having a relapse is likely, right?” “Right. Most importantly,” said Faith, “you have a relationship with a God who is awesomely powerful. He promises in 2 Peter 2:9 that the Lord knows how to deliver the godly out of temptations. Pray about this, Dinah. Ask the Lord for strength when you are in your hour 45

A Dinah Harris Mystery of greatest weakness and ask for wisdom when you feel strong. He will give you everything you need and more.” Dinah felt tears spring to her eyes. “Faith . . . it’s just so hard sometimes.” “I understand, Dinah. Remember that I’m praying for you every day, okay?” Dinah ruefully admitted that she needed all the prayer she could get and hung up. Feeling suddenly exhausted, she sank down on the living room couch and closed her eyes. Eventually she collapsed on her bed, and prayed for strength until sleep overcame her. Then she dreamed of a great and holy presence, filling her with awe and fear as it approached. It wrapped unseen arms of love around her, soothed her spirit and told her: I am watching over you, my child.

46

E

lla Barnett had been so exhausted upon falling into bed at midnight that she was asleep almost the minute her head touched the pillow. Her father had refused to go to bed, positive that she would harm him if he fell asleep. Despite the fact that he was an old man, he was still too strong for Ella to physically drag to bed and so she’d stayed up with him until he’d relented. She no longer dared to leave him alone, knowing that he could escape or hurt himself or hurt someone else. For that reason, she didn’t hear him wake before her, walk downstairs and let himself out of the front door. She continued her deep, dreamless sleep. Ella didn’t know what woke her — but she suddenly sat up straight in bed, darts of fear driving into her heart. Then she heard a faint but 48

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unmistakable voice yelling from somewhere outside and her stomach turned to ice. Hastily she dressed and checked that her father wasn’t in the back yard before rushing out into the street. It was a quiet morning, but she could see him standing on the sidewalk outside a house. In the warm air, his voice fell on her ears like tiny pieces of broken music. As she got closer, she recognized the rhythm of his words. “Peter! Henry!” he called, facing the house in front of which he stood. “Come out! I know you’re in there!” The middle-aged lady who lived in the house stood on her front porch, looking uncertain and miffed. “Nobody by that name lives here,” she said, in the irritated tones of somebody who has repeated the message many times. “There are certainly no young children here. It’s just me and my husband.” “Dad! What are you doing?” asked Ella, approaching him in full view so as not to scare or upset him. He turned to look, but there was no flash of recognition in his eyes today. “Young lady,” he said, authoritatively. “I must speak with Peter and Henry. Now, where are they?” “Who are Peter and Henry?” the middle-aged woman asked. “Two boys, eight and nine years old,” explained John Barnett. “If you won’t help me, I’ll speak to your supervisor.” Bewildered, the woman asked Ella, “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?” “He asked me the same thing,” piped up a male neighbor from over the fence. “He’s been wandering up and down the street yelling at all the houses. I don’t know what he wants.” “He has Alzheimer’s,” said Ella. “Nobody knows what he’s talking about. I’m sorry he’s disturbed you. He’s very confused.” The woman nodded, her face softening a little. “I’m sorry to hear that. Good luck.” From her porch, she watched as Ella took her father by the arm. “Come on,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll find the answer at home.” Please just come home, prayed Ella frantically. Please don’t make a scene here. Thankfully, John Barnett agreed to go with her peacefully. 49

A Dinah Harris Mystery Ella noticed curtains twitching as she walked by. She felt a sudden surge of anger. Nosy neighbors, she thought, but won’t come to help. As if she’d read Ella’s mind, Margaret appeared from her house and came to take John’s other arm. “Hello, dear,” she said kindly. “Had some trouble this morning?” “He’s obsessed with two boys named Henry and Peter,” said Ella, her voice tight with frustration and embarrassment. “Maybe they’re from his past, but I have no idea how to help him.” They arrived back at the house and Ella settled her father in his favorite chair while Margaret made tea. In the kitchen, Margaret inquired, “Have you thought about getting some residential help for your father?” Ella frowned. “What do you mean?” Margaret handed her a mug of hot, sweet tea. “He’s quite advanced in his disease,” she said. “There’s a limit to the care you can provide him. He may be better off with professional care.” “You think he should be put into a home?” asked Ella. “I realize that you love your father very much. But he has an awful disease that is getting progressively worse. I think professional care should be the next phase before you wear yourself out entirely.” Margaret watched the young woman from behind her teacup. “I’ve thought about it,” admitted Ella, at length. “But I just can’t bring myself to do it. Dad means so much to me. I just couldn’t put him in a strange place full of people he doesn’t know. Anyway, that’s a bad thing to do for someone with dementia. He needs familiarity and his own things.” “I do agree with you, to a point,” said Margaret. “But he’s getting to the stage where he doesn’t recognize you or his home. The disease has stolen his ability to even have familiar things and people around him.” Ella sighed. Margaret was making sense, of course, but Ella just couldn’t fathom abandoning her father into a nursing home. She had promised to take care of him when he was well enough to understand that vow, and she couldn’t break it now. “I’ll think some more about it,” she told Margaret. “I’m coping, at the moment. I’ll see how things go.” “Okay.” Margaret drained her teacup and placed it on the kitchen sink. “I’m always here if you need me, dear.” 50

The Shadowed Mind “Thanks, Margaret. I do appreciate it.” Ella embraced her neighbor briefly, and then saw her out the front door. Back in the living room, her father was napping and he looked almost like he used to, before the disease had stolen his memory, personality, and pride. Ella put her head in her hands and tried to think. Oh, Dad. What am I going to do with you? ****

Dinah Harris had a free morning, having agreed to meet Detective Samson Cage later in the day to talk to the crime scene lab. With new energy, she attacked the congealed burnt dinner from last night and cleaned the whole kitchen. As she cleaned, she fell deep into thought. Last night had been a close call, but she’d pulled through — just. She felt as though she was in a battle for her life: on one side, her old, alcoholic self trying to seduce her back into addiction, and on the other side, a beacon of hope and a source of power. Yet it was so much easier to slide back into addiction than it was to climb the mountain toward hope. She knew she’d be in a war against alcohol all her life, and that the battles would get easier in time. In fact, every morning that she awoke with a clear head, still sober, brought her an added measure of hope for the future. She was beginning to accept that Sammy and Luke would never come back, but she could certainly begin to build a new life. As Dinah scrubbed the stove, she thought about how close she’d come to ending her own life during the Smithsonian case. It was by God’s grace that she didn’t succeed. It wasn’t until she’d almost died that she realized she wanted to live. Dinah stood, surveyed her clean kitchen, and snapped off her rubber gloves just as the doorbell rang. Answering it, she saw a DHL deliveryman waiting with a long, oblong box. “Delivery for Dinah Harris?” he said. “Thanks,” said Dinah, bemusedly looking at the package. She didn’t know anyone who would send her a gift so unexpectedly. Inside her apartment, she opened the package and her stomach turned to ice. Nestled inside was a bottle of Smirnoff vodka with a bright red bow tied around the neck. Alongside the bottle a small card 51

A Dinah Harris Mystery poked out of the tissue paper. With shaking hands, Dinah opened the card: “Thinking of you always. Hope you enjoy. David.” It was an innocuous message to anyone except Dinah. “David” just happened to be Senator David Winters, the mastermind behind four murders during the Smithsonian case. He’d been smart enough to leave behind no clues or evidence inculpating him, and only Dinah knew the truth. He’d confessed his involvement as a precursor to having her killed, but thanks to her old FBI partner Ferguson, she’d escaped. The only thing that ensured she would avoid his murderous hand now was a sworn document ensconced in an electronic vault with instructions for it to be made public if she died. Furthermore, Senator Winters knew that Dinah was an alcoholic, and the gift was both mocking and cruel — an invitation to selfdestruct. This was his way of letting her know that he was watching her for an opportune time to get rid of her. While he sought to be president, she was safe. Even a whiff of a scandal involving four murders would be enough to end his campaign. After that, Dinah knew he would use every one of his formidable resources to hunt her down. She picked up the phone and dialed the direct number to his office. His secretary, a woman skilled at allowing virtually no one to speak to the senator, answered. “I need to speak with Senator Winters,” Dinah said. “I’m sorry,” said the secretary superciliously. “I’m afraid you can’t. He. . . .” “Tell him it’s the woman who came back from the dead,” interrupted Dinah shortly. “I can guarantee you he’ll want to speak to me.” There was an outraged sniff, then the tone of a transfer being made. Even the hold music managed to sound offended at Dinah’s tone. In a few moments, the senator answered. “How nice of you to keep in touch,” he said, a sneer evident in his tone. “I’m just calling to thank you for your thoughtful gift,” said Dinah. “I meant what I said in the card,” replied the Senator. “I think of you often.” “You can be assured I’ll keep working on your case, no matter what it takes,” promised Dinah. 52

The Shadowed Mind “I hope you’re not working too hard!” chuckled Winters. “Well, perhaps a glass of the vodka will relax you.” Dinah ignored the jibe. “How are your presidential aspirations?” “Wonderful. I have some kind contributors to my campaign. How are things at the FBI?” Winters knew full well that Dinah had been fired. “I wonder how well your contributors know you?” mused Dinah. “I’d hate for them to get a nasty phone call or an anonymous letter.” “They don’t wish for their identities to be made public, unfortunately,” replied Winters curtly. “It wouldn’t be in anyone’s best interest for that to happen.” “Never mind. I’m sure the truth will be revealed eventually,” said Dinah. “Then you won’t have to worry about it again. The truth will set you free.” “Quoting from the Bible, are you?” scoffed Winters. “Have you had a big conversion, become a born-again or something?” “Actually, I have,” said Dinah calmly. “It’s precisely why you don’t scare me.” Winters laughed. “Then you’d better say your prayers every night, Harris. I haven’t noticed God stepping down from heaven to stop me from doing anything so far.” “Perhaps He’s waiting for you to see Him up there,” suggested Dinah. Winters laughed again. “If I was a different person, I’d feel sorry for you all over again. Not only are you a miserable alcoholic, but you’re also a pathetic born-again. You should run along to church and sing songs about how grand the world is. Meanwhile, I’ll concentrate on running it.” Abruptly, he hung up. Dinah massaged her temples, a headache flaring behind her eyes. She’d made a powerful enemy, but she was determined that one day she’d bring him to account for all that he’d done. Dinah prepared to meet Detective Samson Cage and left her apartment a short time later. She didn’t know why she didn’t pour the vodka down the sink. ****

53

A Dinah Harris Mystery Dinah met Detective Samson Cage at the crime laboratory on Constitution Avenue. It was a different crime lab than the one used when she’d been in the FBI. She was unfamiliar with it, and so she arrived a little early and stood out in front, waiting for the big detective to arrive. When he eased the unmarked Crown into the parking space, Dinah noticed that the outside of the car was scrupulously clean. Suspiciously, even the alloy wheels shined a little too much. She couldn’t help but smile as she waved at Cage. They walked through the front doors together and Dinah asked, “Do you actually wash that car?” “I’m the only one who drives it,” replied Cage. “Why wouldn’t I?” “It doesn’t belong to you, for one thing,” said Dinah. They waited for the lab technician who was working on their case to come and get them. “It’s state property. Isn’t it someone else’s job to take care of the fleet cars?” Cage smiled. “If I’m the one who has to be seen in it, I want it to be clean. If I wait for the fleet guys to wash it, it would be filthy all the time. So I do it myself.” Dinah thought about that while they waited. Appearances were important to Samson Cage, it seemed. “Dinah! What are you doing here, man?” A skinny guy with bleached, platinum hair and multiple piercings appeared in the doorway, a huge grin on his face. “Hey, Zach!” Dinah stood to greet the lab technician. He had worked closely with her on the Smithsonian case and was one of the best, if not unconventional, technicians in the city. He wore squaretoed, alligator-leather shoes with his lab coat, together with several studded, leather cuffs on his wrists. His hair was spiked to resemble a mohawk, and a particularly shiny jewel winked from the piercing in his eyebrow. “I’m helping Detective Cage with a case,” Dinah explained. “I thought I’d lend some expertise.” “You guys must be doing it tough,” lamented Zach, turning to Cage. “You’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren’t you?” “Well, we have a very low budget,” said Cage, his face perfectly straight. “You get what you pay for, I suppose.” Zach slapped Cage on the back and laughed uproariously. 54

The Shadowed Mind “You two are very funny guys,” muttered Dinah scathingly, following them down the hallway. “What are you doing here? Don’t you work for the FBI anymore?” “I’ve been seconded here,” explained Zach. “It had become a bit of a basket case and they needed some serious help. Who else would they call?” Once in the lab, the mood shifted and Zach became very professional. “We literally combed the crime scene,” he began. The items found at the crime scene were secured in plastic evidence bags and laid out on the bench. “And I really don’t have much that will help you. The attack was fast and meticulous. There was little opportunity for the victim to retaliate in any way which might have led to some DNA being left at the scene. Also, the alleyway itself contained lots of DNA fragments from many different individuals, none of which are useful. It’s what happens when people shoot up there or get involved in a fight. I examined the needle and cord that were found on the body and there is nothing I can tell you. The perp likely wore gloves. The needle is a cheap one that can be found at any needle exchange in the city, and the cord was of the garden-variety hardware store type. That pretty much only leaves the card presumably left by the killer on the body as a clue of any value.” “I’m almost positive he didn’t leave fingerprints on it,” said Dinah. “You’re right. The only thing we can do is find out the particulars of the photo — who is in it, where it was taken, how old it is and so forth,” Zach said. “Have you had any luck?” Cage asked. “Not yet,” Zach said. “There are no identifying markers, but I’ll keep trying.” “I’ve had a look at the photo myself,” said Dinah. “At first I thought it was a military school or boot camp from a few decades ago. What do you think?” Zach picked up the photo and studied it. “You could be right,” he said. “But how do we know its whereabouts, let alone when it was taken?” “I don’t know,” admitted Dinah. “I hate to say it, but we need another message from the killer to help us with that.” “You mean, we need another body,” said Cage flatly. 55

A Dinah Harris Mystery “Probably.” Dinah sighed. “Can you involve the media somehow; try to get the killer to communicate with us?” Cage mused. “It could work,” he said, at length. “I’ll have to talk to my boss.” They stood in silence for a few moments, each lost in thought. Finally, Cage said, “You got anything else to share with us, Zach?” Zach shook his head. “Sorry, guys. I told you there wasn’t much I could help you with.” Cage and Dinah turned to leave, and then Zach said, “Oh, there is one thing. I know that the victim was killed by breaking the neck.” The two investigators nodded. Zach made a twisting motion with his hands. “I asked my karate instructor about that move. Apparently, it’s taught in the higher levels of some of those more extreme martial arts groups. You know, the ones who train cage fighters and such. Anyway, the more reputable martial arts teachers won’t even go near that move, so it might help to look at some of the lesser-known martial arts.” “Thanks, that’s helpful,” said Cage, writing this down in his little notebook. Dinah just stood and stared at Zach. “What?” the lab technician said, defensively. “I guess I just didn’t pick you as a karate enthusiast,” Dinah said eventually. He shrugged. “It impresses the ladies.” Dinah grinned at him. “You need all the help you can get. I don’t know if karate is enough.” “You’re just jealous because I’m so much younger than you,” retorted Zach smugly. Dinah laughed, and she suddenly realized how good it felt. ****

Ben Steffan brightened when the killer arrived at the depressing halfway house for what Steffan thought would be his final interview. The killer found it amusing that Ben actually looked forward to tonight, considering what was going to happen. “What are we going to talk about tonight?” Steffan asked. “I can’t wait to read your article. I can’t believe I’m in it! It’s so exciting. It’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.” 56

The Shadowed Mind “I thought we might go out,” suggested the killer. In his head he screamed, Shut up, shut up, just shut up! “I’ve seen just about enough of this place, and I was wondering if you could show me places where you might end up if you weren’t able to obtain treatment here.” “That’s a great idea!” bubbled Ben. “What a great idea. Okay. Let’s go.” It was almost too easy, thought the killer. It was so easy because his preparation had been so thorough. The killer was meticulous in every detail, and that was why everything was progressing smoothly. Along the way, Ben Steffan chattered away incessantly, which irritated his companion immensely. The killer ground his teeth together and bit his tongue in an effort to stop himself from strangling Steffan on the spot in full public view. Slowly they drifted east toward the Anacostia River, then south toward Capitol Hill. The homeless seemed to gather in small groups around naked fires burning in 55-gallon drums. The majority of them were men, but the killer noticed a few women in their midst. The average age seemed to be between 35 and 60, but life on the streets could often age a person prematurely. They eyed the two men suspiciously, instantly wary of any stranger. “I would bet that close to one-third of the guys you see here would suffer from schizophrenia or some other mental illness,” Steffan said. “Without medication or therapy, they can’t hold down a job. If they don’t have good family support, there is nowhere else for them to go.” He paused. “Actually, even if they do have good family support, they could end up here anyway. It’s easy to assume your family is trying to drug you or imprison you when you’re in the depths of the disease.” The killer didn’t particularly care, mostly because this was information he already knew. Still he continued to ask questions, pretending to be a harmless reporter, hoping to distract Steffan as they wandered away from the people. They kept walking into the black night. Steffan didn’t seem to notice that most of the homeless had been left behind. He was too busy complaining about the lack of care received by the mentally ill. Finally, when even the intermittent street lights no longer brightened their way, either through design or destruction, Steffan seemed to 57

A Dinah Harris Mystery realize where he was. He stopped short. “Where are we?” he asked, glancing around. “I thought you knew where you were going,” the killer said glibly. “Aren’t you leading this tour?” Steffan laughed. “Sorry, I must have got preoccupied. We have to go back.” The killer looked around quickly. They were on a nice dark street, in a section of the city where the buildings were abandoned for the night. The fires of the homeless were well behind them and even if Steffan managed to yell for help, the killer would have finished his task and be gone by the time any of them arrived. “This is actually the end of the road for you,” he said. “No, we need to go back,” said Steffan, oblivious to the threat. “We’ll just get lost if we keep going.” In a flash, the killer had Steffan pinned close to his own body, one arm around his neck. Steffan seemed frozen in shock for several seconds, and then started to struggle. “What are you doing?” he asked, with effort. His hands scrambled uselessly at the strong arm pressuring his throat. “I’m actually very sorry,” said the killer. “But someone has to stop the cycle, you see.” It seemed that Ben put up less of a fight than Lakeisha. He was a slight man, but more potently, his senses and reason were dulled by the heavy medications he currently took. Therefore it took the killer no time at all to complete his work and let the body lie on the crumbling sidewalk. He made it mercifully quick. This time he didn’t take as much care to stage the body; it wouldn’t be found for some hours yet. He withdrew a card with a simple message on it from his back jeans pocket and read it with a smile on his face. He stuffed the card into the inside pocket of the jacket Steffan had been wearing and melted into the night, like a ghost in a nightmare that can’t quite ever be forgotten.

58

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inah jolted awake from a heavy, dreamless sleep to the sound of her cell phone vibrating on the night table. It took her several seconds to adjust, blinking sleepily in the dark room while the last tentacles of sleep slithered away. “Hello?” “Harris, this is Detective Cage,” boomed a deep voice. “We’ve found another body that looks like it’s related to the murder of Lakeisha Tennant.” “I’ll meet you there,” said Dinah. “Where?” Once she’d obtained the address, Dinah quickly showered, made coffee and poured it into a thermos, and briefly thought about food. She decided to eat something later. Every nerve was buzzing with the anticipation of a crime scene and what they might find there. 60

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Dinah did not observe the speed limit and made it to the crumbling neighborhood in record time. Detective Samson Cage was already there, along with a slew of uniforms. Red and blue police lights cut through the gray, early morning light. Dinah approached Detective Cage, who nodded at her. As usual, he looked like he’d just had a restful eight hours of sleep, a long shower, and probably even a decent breakfast. In fact, it was entirely possible he’d given himself a manicure before heading out his front door. “What do we have?” asked Dinah. Surrounded by crime scene tape, a male who appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties lay supine on the sidewalk. There were no evident signs of violence, and he could quite easily have been overlooked as sleeping or unconscious were it not for the unnatural angle of his neck. “His name is Benjamin Steffan,” began Cage. “His current address is a halfway house for the mentally ill.” The two of them ducked under the tape and squatted down over the body. Steffan’s eyes were wide open, as if in shock that he would not meet death gently. Dinah wanted to close them, to give him some rest. “I’m willing to bet that his neck was broken by torsion,” said Cage. He spoke in the quiet, hushed tone that people used around dead bodies. “And that’s what makes it interesting to us.” Dinah carefully looked over the body, careful to touch him only where necessary. There were no other marks on him that would indicate a struggle. “If these murders are related,” she said, thinking aloud, “it appears that the killer strikes up some sort of friendship. In Tennant’s case, the killer pretended to be a friendly do-gooder or social worker with no expectations. He met up with her several times before he killed her. Perhaps the same is true for Steffan.” “Why do you think that?” Cage asked. “There seems to be no struggle. Most victims will fight tooth and nail when they realize that death is imminent. It seems to be a natural instinct of self-preservation. The fact that there is no evidence of this leads me to believe that the victims knew and trusted the killer, and 61

A Dinah Harris Mystery that his attack was a complete surprise. It helps that the method he chooses is quick and clean, but it also means that he has to be in the perfect position to execute the move.” Cage nodded as they both stood. “I would have to stand behind you, pretty close,” he said. He demonstrated on Dinah. In fact, their bodies would have to touch for the killer to get the leverage he needed. “There is no way I’d let someone I didn’t know or trust get that close to me,” said Dinah. She turned to face Cage. “So back off, man.” Cage laughed, a rich, full sound that caused his entire body to resonate like a plucked violin string. They stood in silence for a few moments, lost in thought. Cage pursed his lips, thinking. “What if you are a vulnerable street kid, though? Wouldn’t you be used to letting others invade your personal space?” “No,” said Dinah immediately. “Not from behind like that. That’s a position of trust, and any street kid quickly learns they must never let their guard down on the street.” “I guess the question now is whether the killer left behind a card like last time,” said Cage, after several more moments of silence. They squatted beside the body again and carefully looked through the victim’s clothing. Dinah patted the body’s legs with her gloved hands, feeling for a crinkle of paper or the stiffness of a card. “Got something,” said Cage. He’d been searching the victim’s coat and had found something in the pocket. Together they studied it intently. It was a blank generic sympathy card, with a picture of an angelic little girl on the front. There were no other distinguishing marks. Cage opened the card. Inside was a typed message, stuck to the inside of the card with a piece of tape. It is better for all the world, if instead of waiting to execute degenerate offspring for crime or to let them starve for their imbecility, society can prevent those who are manifestly unfit from continuing their kind. Cage and Dinah looked at each other with horror. This put an entirely new spin on the case and, in fact, rocketed it into the stratosphere of the kind of weird crime that the media loved. 62

The Shadowed Mind “What is this? Racism?” whispered Cage. “Or something else entirely?” “I think it’s something else entirely,” said Dinah. A feeling of dread rose in her stomach. They were headed down a path of no return, with personal ramifications that would rock both of them to the core of their very souls. ****

The medical examiner’s office took over custody of the body, preparing to take it with them to the morgue. There was little evidence to follow up, and Cage suggested a trip to the halfway house where Benjamin Steffan had lived. On the way, Dinah phoned ahead to ask the director to meet them. She didn’t give any details, other than to impress upon Reverend Notting the urgency of the situation. It was located in a neighborhood that seemed to straddle the lower and middle classes. To the north lay the gang-riddled, poverty-stricken suburbs where hope for the future was in very short supply. The house itself was situated in Edgewood, with the wealthier suburbs to the west — Columbia Heights, Mount Pleasant, and Adams Morgan. It was a neat, well-kept house with a wholesome, well-scrubbed look. Reverend Stephen Notting was waiting for them. He wore the worried, harried expression that in-demand caregivers often sport. Still, he graciously offered Dinah and Cage coffee and donuts and invited them into his office, which wasn’t much bigger than a broom closet. “How can I help you?” he asked. He had a nervous habit of picking and pulling at the cuticles on his nails. Dinah was distracted, then irritated, by the man’s tendency. “I understand that a resident currently lives here by the name of Benjamin Steffan,” began Samson Cage. “Can you confirm that?” “Yes, he does. He’s lived here for about seven months now.” “And for what reason did Steffan come to live here?” “He suffers from paranoid schizophrenia,” replied Reverend Notting. “That is a mental illness characterized by hallucinations and the subsequent inability to determine reality. The hallucinations are often paranoid in nature, so that the sufferer might believe any number of wild theories.” “Like what?” asked Dinah. 63

A Dinah Harris Mystery “Well, that the government has implanted microchips in his head, or that the CIA has recruited him for a dangerous mission, or that the Mafia is hunting him down.” Notting paused for a moment. “The possibilities are endless, limited only by the victim’s imagination. Each sufferer has their own unique hallucinations.” “So what do you offer here?” Cage asked. “A place to live, primarily,” said Notting, “in addition to medication and therapy that would otherwise be too expensive. We try to establish a drug and therapy regime that will stabilize the patient, and then help them to get jobs or go to school. Our main objective is to get them to a point where their disease is controlled and they can be part of society.” “What happens to patients who don’t get access to treatment like that?” Notting made a face. “Unfortunately, the worst cases end up homeless, in jail, or dead, either by their own hand or through violence of some description. Milder cases might drift from job to job, or end up living with their parents.” Cage and Dinah were silent as they digested this information. Ben Steffan had been as vulnerable as Lakeisha Tennant, thought Dinah. “Is Ben okay?” Notting asked, his voice calm but his fingers picking at his nails at a frantic pace. “No, I’m afraid he was murdered last night,” replied Cage. “We found his body this morning over by Anacostia River.” Notting paled. “Oh, how awful! Do you know what happened?” “At this point, we are still piecing together the details,” said Cage. “Did you know that he’d left the premises last night?” “Our residents are free to come and go as they please, up to a point,” said Notting. “So although I didn’t specifically know that he’d gone out last night, I would also say that I’m not surprised.” “He went out often?” “No, but the journalist had come to see him.” Cage and Dinah glanced at each other. “What journalist?” “A freelance journalist came to see us. He wanted to write a series of articles on Good Samaritan organizations, as he called them. He wanted to speak to one of the residents, and Ben volunteered.” Notting looked from Cage to Dinah, confused. “Why?” 64

The Shadowed Mind “So he didn’t represent a newspaper or television station?” “No.” Dinah frowned, thinking. It was the perfect ploy to gain someone’s trust. Steffan would have opened up about his illness and past, thinking that he would appear in the media. “What did this journalist look like?” asked Cage, his tone more urgent. “He was white, about six foot, dark hair . . . uh, very average looking,” said Notting, pursing his lips as he thought. Of course he would be. The killer would not go out of his way to make himself memorable. “Are there any distinguishing features you can think of?” Cage questioned. “An accent, a tattoo, a scar?” Reverend Notting was silent for so long that Dinah began to wonder if he’d even heard the question. Finally he said, “I don’t know how to describe it. He had funny eyes.” “Funny eyes?” Dinah leaned forward, watching the reverend intently. “Yes. It was like . . . there was no life in them, almost nothing human.” Notting chewed on his lip. “There was no expression. They were the eyes of a snake.” Dinah remembered what Lakeisha Tennant’s fellow street kids had said about the man who’d gained her trust. They’d described him as having dead eyes. “Do you think he’s the one who murdered Ben?” Notting asked, looking sick. “I was the one who introduced him to Ben. I feel responsible.” “Nobody is responsible for this except the killer himself,” said Dinah firmly. “It’s one lead we’re pursuing, among others,” said Cage. They left the Reverend Notting then, who sat behind his desk looking pale and shaken, tearing at his cuticles frantically. “What do you think?” Cage asked, once they were outside. “I think it’s a great way to earn someone’s trust,” said Dinah. “The first victim he befriends by being a non-threatening do-gooder. The second victim he pretends to take great interest in, maybe promising media time. Couple that with the cards left on the victim’s bodies, we 65

A Dinah Harris Mystery have too many coincidences. Furthermore, it would appear that the killer is leaving a message of some type on the bodies.” “Are you suggesting a serial killer?” Cage asked, his eyes widening. “I don’t know. I hope not. We’d better find him before he strikes again.” Cage rubbed his eyes and sighed. “It’s going to be a long day.” ****

Ella Barnett stared around her kitchen with a mixture of horror and resignation. The sheer amount of time she was spending with her father meant that she was neglecting many other areas of her life, including the housework. Now that he was watching television and seemed relatively happy, she knew she had to tackle either the kitchen or the laundry. She started with loading dishes into the dishwasher and had moved onto rinsing out the saucepans when the doorbell rang. Her first instinct was one of dread — what had her father done now? But as she trotted toward the front door, she saw the silhouette of his head, still sitting in his chair. Frowning, she opened the door and was surprised to see four friends from church standing on the front porch. She immediately felt guilty. She hadn’t been to church for many months, after it had gotten too hard to take her father due to his constant disruptions during the service. “Hi! This is a surprise,” she said, standing aside to let them in. She felt awkward and anxious that they would take one look at the house, wrinkle their noses in disgust, and leave. “Dad is watching television so let’s go into the kitchen so we don’t disturb him.” She realized her mistake when she entered the kitchen — it still looked like a bomb had hit it. “Sorry about the mess,” she said, face burning with embarrassment. “I was just cleaning it up.” “Listen, Ella, that’s why we’re here,” said one of the girls, whose name was Karen. “We’ve come to give you a break, not make you feel bad about your kitchen.” “A break?” Ella could barely fathom what that even meant. “You go out, do something that you really want to do for yourself, and we’ll take care of your father and clean up the house for you,” said 66

The Shadowed Mind Karen. Her three companions nodded. “Or you can go upstairs and take a nap. It’s completely up to you.” Ella was immensely grateful, but she couldn’t help but worry about her father. “What if Dad realizes I’m not here?” she said. “He can be hostile, even a bit scary.” One of the young men spoke up. “I’m a nurse and I work with dementia patients every day. It’s not a problem. I know exactly what to do.” “Oh, great. Okay. You should probably know that he’s very good at escaping,” added Ella, trying to think of all the things they needed to know. “He. . . .” Karen took Ella by the arm. “Margaret is coming over for a few hours, and knows about your situation. If we run into any trouble — which we won’t — she’ll know how to handle it.” Ella nodded and realized she had to make the most of the opportunity. “Well, I have my cell phone with me. You can always call me. When should I be back?” “We all cleared our schedules for the day,” said Karen. “So come back whenever you’re ready.” In the car, Ella drove aimlessly. With sudden and unexpected freedom, she didn’t know what to do. She knew that she should have a haircut or restock the pantry, but she found herself cruising into the parking lot of the big park near her house. She followed the meandering pathway as it wound past the playground toward the large pond, home to several families of ducks. She tried not to think, instead watching other families play and laugh without a care in the world. She thought to herself that this must be like what having a real life would feel like. She was envious of the carefree laughter — she was willing to bet that those families weren’t nursing their fathers toward death. Near the pond, she sat on a park bench and watched the ducks cleave paths smoothly through the water. She was always instantly struck by guilt when she resented her situation. Her father hadn’t asked to contract Alzheimer’s disease. If he’d had any control of his faculties, he would never have dreamed of behaving the way he did. It was an awful, vicious disease that robbed him of everything he held so dear — his own dignity, the ability to care for his family, and not 67

A Dinah Harris Mystery the other way around. It was the last thing he would have chosen for himself. What am I going to do in the meantime? wondered Ella. Normally she worked as a freelance writer, submitting articles on specific deadlines. It had taken several years to establish a reputation as a reliable and talented writer. Now she was currently unable to meet deadlines, and so she hadn’t worked much for a few months. She rarely left the house to talk to anybody. She didn’t really have any other meaningful relationships that she could count on. She’d always been introverted, counting the number of good friends on one hand. But these days, she could count the number of good friends on no hands; she just didn’t seem to have any anymore. It was possible, she discovered, to feel thoroughly resentful, angry, and guilty all at the same time. The worst feeling was guilt, knowing that if their roles had been reversed, her father would have cared for her completely selflessly. It wouldn’t bother him to put his life on hold to care for a family member. It probably wouldn’t have even entered his mind. What is wrong with me? she yelled silently at herself. How can I be so selfish and self-absorbed that I can even think about resenting Dad? “I don’t mean to intrude, but are you okay?” The sudden voice next to her startled her. At some point, while she was deep in thought, a man in his late forties or early fifties had joined her on the bench. “Oh, thank you, but I’m fine,” said Ella, embarrassed. There was no way — no way — she or anyone in her family would air their personal problems to a complete stranger. “You’ve been crying ever since I sat down,” said the man gently. Ella brushed her hand over her cheek and found dampness there, much to her surprise. She hadn’t even realized it — perhaps that meant that tears were so commonplace now that she didn’t register them. “My father is very ill,” she said after a few moments, surprising herself and her self-imposed creed of non-disclosure. “I take care of him.” “I’m very sorry. That must be enormously difficult for you,” he said with great empathy. Maybe it was the kindness the man showed her, or just the fact that Ella desperately needed someone to talk to, but she suddenly found 68

The Shadowed Mind herself spilling out everything from the details of her father’s illness to the conflicting emotions waging war against each other inside her. The man listened intently, not interrupting, and making encouraging noises when Ella paused for breath. Finally, she sat back, took a deep breath, and said with great mortification, “Well, that’s it. I’m done. Thanks for listening. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump it all on you. It’s really not like me to do that.” “Anytime,” he said kindly. “It’s a tough situation.” They sat in silence for a few moments, and then he remarked, “If that ever happens to me, I want to be gone before the end, you know, before it gets really bad.” “Unfortunately, Alzheimer’s doesn’t work that way,” replied Ella. “Well, I’d sort it out myself. I wouldn’t wait for the disease to run its course.” Ella turned to him, shocked. “You’d commit suicide?” The man considered. “Well, I suppose ultimately that’s what it would be. But I’d like to be surrounded by my family and friends, dying with dignity on my own terms.” His words both intrigued and appalled Ella. “So you support euthanasia, do you?” “Yes, I do. What would your father have wanted, if he had the choice?” “He would not have supported suicide,” said Ella stoutly. “He would follow God’s will to the very end.” “Is it God’s will that he should suffer so terribly?” the man asked. “And by extension, that you should also suffer?” Ella didn’t know how to reply. “I — I don’t know,” she admitted. “Wouldn’t it be easier on everyone, if he’d had the chance to end it himself, before his illness became so bad? Death is inevitable anyway, right?” It would be easier, admitted Ella to herself, but that doesn’t make it right. Why on earth did I get into this discussion with someone I don’t even know? She stood, feeling uncomfortable. “Listen, I have to go,” she said. “Thanks for the listening ear.” “Just think about what I’ve said,” he said, as she turned to go. “Surely God wouldn’t want anyone to suffer so much!” 69

A Dinah Harris Mystery Ella felt the sudden urge to go home to her father. She felt contaminated by the words of the stranger and disoriented by the unwelcome emotions they stirred. When she arrived home, the four visitors were cleaning the house and her father remained in his chair, glued to the television. Ella rushed over to him and hugged him fiercely. “I love you, Dad.” “I love you, too,” he replied, kindly. Ella searched his eyes for recognition. “Even though I have no idea who you are,” he added. Ella sighed. ****

The killer moved with purpose and precision. He felt untouchable, cunning, and alive. His mission was succeeding beyond his wildest dreams, and he felt he could conceivably keep moving on the fringes of society as long as he dared. Although, he had to admit, he was starting to feel the first pang of frustration. He had a specific target in mind for his next victim, and he just couldn’t find one. It was irritating that the homeless were so wary. Perhaps they could see in him what others could not, he reflected. It didn’t help that he’d narrowed his target to exclude any with mental illness or drug addiction. He’d already proven those points. He was after a perfectly lucid, perfectly competent homeless person who had ended up that way due to a series of bad choices. The killer parked the white van under a street light and climbed out into the balmy night. The van proclaimed that he represented the Drug Response Team, and that free coffee, sandwiches, and blankets were offered. The Drug Response Team was a real, non-profit organization that worked at the forefront of homelessness — offering immediate supplies, health services and referrals, and drug treatment options. For tonight’s purposes, he was an imposter, although he really did offer coffee and sandwiches. No one could ever accuse him of being unprepared. Eventually, they came out of the shadows. Some took the food and scurried away, almost as if they were afraid of being seen under light. Others stayed for a long chat. It was those the killer canvassed, searching their history as much as they’d allow. After what seemed like hours of pointless, mind-numbing conversations with people he considered to be completely useless to society, 70

The Shadowed Mind a seed of hope flowered in him as he watched a woman walk quickly toward the van. She looked to be in the mid-thirties, was white, and had shoulder-length brown hair that was in need of a wash. She was small and thin, and she moved with downcast eyes, trying not to attract attention. The killer immediately sensed in her a vulnerability that could be manipulated. This woman was used to being a victim, he thought. She stood to the side, waiting for others to finish their drinks and wander away. Only then did she approach and say quietly, “Could I please have a coffee and a sandwich?” She did not look at him. The killer bestowed on her a beaming smile. “Of course. My name is John and I am here to help you in any way I can.” She glanced up and gave a quick, nervous smile. “I’m Ashleigh.” She accepted the coffee and sandwich and whispered her thanks. She was about to leave, which alarmed the killer. He knew he had to find out more about her. “Where do you currently live?” he asked, in the warm tone of one who cares about such things. “Uh, over there,” she said, with a vague wave of her hand. He could tell she was ashamed of it and didn’t want to talk about it. “Are you safe?” he asked. She shrugged. “I think I’m about as safe as I can be.” “Is there nobody in your family who can help?” he asked. “We have resources to help find and contact family members.” She laughed bitterly. “I don’t have any family. At least none that care enough to help.” How wonderful, thought the killer. “Do you have a job?” In his research, the killer had discovered that having a job did not necessarily protect one from poverty and homelessness. Many people who worked for minimum wage struggled to meet living expenses, including rent. “Not yet. I just moved here.” She didn’t stop eating to talk and spoke around a mouthful of food. “Economy isn’t so good.” “It’s tough,” agreed the killer. “Why did you move here?” Ashleigh shrugged. “Met a guy on the Internet.” “You moved here to be with him?” “Used all my savings on a bus ticket up here,” she said. “Turns out he’s married, not interested in me in real life.” 71

A Dinah Harris Mystery She spoke almost dispassionately, as if she were used to being betrayed and disappointed by life. “What sort of job are you looking for?” he asked. “Anything,” she said, looking hungrily at another package of sandwiches. The killer gave them to her. “I used to waitress, tend bar, clean, whatever.” “I’ll keep my eyes open for anything that comes up,” the killer lied. “I’m sure we can find something for you to do.” “Really?” Ashleigh looked at him, eyes narrowed, at once both wary and hopeful. “You’d do that for me?” “Sure. I’m here to help,” said the killer. “What’s in it for you?” she asked, obviously used to giving away much more than she had ever received. You have no idea. “I do this because I like to help people,” he said. “It gives me a lot of satisfaction.” And that was how easy it was to convince her to trust him. She was a woman so wearied by the burden of her life that she desperately clung to any attention or affection thrown her way. He was willing to bet everything he owned that her childhood had been marked by episodes of abuse and neglect. “I’ll be back here tomorrow night,” he told her. “I’ll have more food and bring some more things you might need. Will you be here?” She shrugged. “I guess. I don’t have anywhere else to go.” He shot her what he hoped was a warm smile.

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t was late when Dinah arrived home that evening and she was exhausted, but she couldn’t turn off her mind. She had a burning need to continue with the investigation, to use all the hours in the day to find the killer. It was like an itch that can’t be scratched. While she made toast and coffee for dinner, she waited for her computer to boot up. The quote left on the body of Benjamin Steffan would be relatively easy to plug into a search engine and find out where it came from. The hard part would be figuring out what it meant to the killer. She entered the phrase into Google, and predictably there were thousands of hits. It didn’t take long for her to discover that the famous Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes had uttered the phrase. 74

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Dinah frowned and read further. The phrase formed part of a decision of a case he’d presided over in 1927: Buck v. Bell. Dinah made a note to herself to find the original case and read it in its entirety, but for now the summary would do. Carrie Buck was a 17-year-old girl who was the first person to be involuntarily sterilized under new sterilization laws passed in Virginia in 1924. Carrie Buck was an unmarried mother, whose own mother was housed in an asylum for the feeble-minded. The authorities at the time deemed Buck to be a “probable potential parent of socially inadequate offspring,” in the words of the legislation. A legal challenge was mounted on Buck’s behalf to test the constitutional validity of the law. During the trial, Carrie Buck’s daughter Vivian was examined by a sociologist of the Eugenics Record Office, who submitted findings to the court that the child was “not normal” and “below average.” Based on these findings, the judge decided that Carrie Buck should be sterilized. Appeals followed, and finally the case reached the Supreme Court, with Buck’s fate in the hands of Judge Oliver Wendell Holmes, who was himself apparently a student of eugenics. He concluded that “a deficient mother, daughter, and granddaughter” justified the need for sterilization. His decision included the quote found on the card on Steffan’s body, word for word. Dinah rubbed her eyes. What on earth was eugenics? What did it have to do with an unmarried mother and an involuntary sterilization? She didn’t understand what eugenics was or why sterilization laws even existed. So she continued to read. Eugenics flourished in the early part of the 20th century, reaching the height of its popularity in the 1920s. At first glance, it seemed to Dinah that proponents at the time sought to explain and treat social problems with scientific methods. Eugenicists argued that social problems were perpetuated in genetics, and therefore defective genes caused issues such as poverty, mental disability, alcoholism, criminality, and prostitution. The easiest method to deal with such problems was simply to disallow such individuals to have children. This belief brought about the introduction of sterilization laws in states, including California and 75

A Dinah Harris Mystery Virginia, where sterilization of “defective” individuals was performed, usually on an involuntary basis. Dinah leaned back in her chair and shook her head. The ideas that society had accepted just because science told them to were astonishing, she thought. It seemed ludicrous now that people believed that defective genes caused poverty and crime; yet it was such a widely held belief at the time that legislation was passed to uphold those beliefs. Dinah thought about the murders of Lakeisha Tennant and Benjamin Steffan, and how the quote was relevant to them. Was the killer trying to prove some eugenic point about the worth of these individuals? There was a big leap from forced sterilization to murder. Dinah didn’t even know if eugenics still existed today. At some point, it had clearly fallen out of favor with the legislators, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t supporters of eugenics still around. She called Detective Samson Cage, who answered groggily after several rings. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked her. Dinah glanced at her watch and saw that it was just after midnight. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I just wanted to let you know that I know where the quote comes from, but I’m not sure what it has to do with the murders.” “I’m awake now so you might as well tell me,” Cage said after a heavy sigh. Dinah explained the quote, the case from which it came and the famous justice. “Eugenics?” Cage said, when she’d finished. “That’s a foreign concept to me.” “Me, too,” admitted Dinah. “I’ve been thinking that the murders are staged very precisely and the killer leaves a calling card. This indicates to me that the killer has a clear message. He’s motivated by something — not rage or hatred, but something else. Perhaps his motivation has something to do with eugenics.” “He’s trying to rid the earth of all the defective people?” Cage said. “Just a thought. I’d better let you get back to sleep,” said Dinah. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 76

The Shadowed Mind Dinah re-read through the website from which she’d obtained the eugenics information. Something she’d read disturbed her and awoke a heavy feeling of self-disgust. There it was — eugenicists argued that undesirable traits such as poverty, mental illness, disability, alcoholism, criminality, and prostitution could be bred out of society. I have struggled with alcoholism, thought Dinah. Does that mean I’m one of the defectives? Would I have been considered an undesirable who shouldn’t have been allowed to breed? She finally went to bed, but couldn’t sleep. Instead she stared at the ceiling, thinking that society had taken full measure of her, and she had been found wanting. ****

Despite his midnight wake-up call, Detective Cage appeared refreshed and well rested the following morning. They met at the local Starbucks as usual, and Cage brought with him a laptop that he used to connect to the Internet wirelessly. “So we’re thinking our guy perhaps believes in these eugenics ideals,” he told her. “He’d have to hang around with people who share those ideals. I’m willing to bet eugenics hasn’t gone away. There must still be some advocates living among us, somewhere.” Cage flipped the laptop around so that Dinah could see it. It was a website called Future of Life and it was a pro-eugenics organization. “I’ve looked through it briefly,” said Cage. “It is reasonably benign, just articles about selective reproduction.” “What is that?” Dinah asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not allowing people with low IQs to pass on their genetic flaws to the next generation and so forth,” said Cage. “I found it to be pretty disturbing, but I guess some people don’t. Anyway, the administrator of the site has authored a few articles himself and it didn’t take me long to track him down.” “Who is he?” “Edward Sable. By day, he runs a small organic supermarket. By night — who knows?” Cage lifted his massive frame from the table. “Want to pay him a visit?” Edward Sable had managed to cash in on the wave of healthconscious consumerism, where shoppers would pay inflated prices for 77

A Dinah Harris Mystery natural and organic food. His supermarket was located on the edge of trendy Georgetown and was bright and clean. The sullen teenage cashier with sparkly lipstick and a dog collar around her neck directed them to an office at the back of the building. Dinah glanced out of a small window as they walked, which afforded a view of the parking lot. Snuggled next to the building was a brand new BMW 535, with the personalized license plate “SABLE.” Obviously, he was doing pretty well for himself. The cashier must have reported their arrival, because the middleaged owner opened his office door and came out into the hallway to greet them. He had longish grey hair pulled into a ponytail, wore trendy square-framed glasses, and sported a shirt that was a truly hideous shade of pink. “I’m Edward Sable,” he said. “Please come in. What can I do for you?” “I’m Detective Samson Cage.” He flashed his badge. “This is Dinah Harris, a consultant who works with the police.” The office was small and spartan, with no personal furnishings of any kind. Detective Cage dwarfed the cheap aluminum chair on which he sat. “What can you tell me about a website called Future of Life?” Cage began, without preamble. Sable raised bushy grey eyebrows. “It’s just a site of information, for people who are interested in or curious about eugenics. I post articles written by others and some written by myself for people to read. There is also a small book shop attached so that people can buy books on the subject online.” “Articles such as ‘Intelligence and IVF: The New Marriage?’ ” Cage asked, consulting his notebook. “And books such as A Complete History of Eugenics?” “That’s right. I’m not sure that there is a problem with that.” Sable leaned back in his chair as a show of relaxed confidence, but Dinah could see the tension in his jaw. Cage looked at him hard. “There’s some pretty confronting stuff in those articles, Mr. Sable.” Sable sighed. “I know that some of my views are deemed politically incorrect. But we live in a country with free speech. So I am free to speak my mind about the direction of the human race.” 78

The Shadowed Mind “And what direction is that?” Sable locked his fingers together under his chin. “Human beings are the most highly evolved creatures on the planet. Yet we’ve overruled the most basic law of nature — survival of the fittest — by allowing members of society who are most definitely not the fittest to thrive. The human race is at risk of sliding backward unless something is done about it.” “What is it you think should be done?” inquired Cage, his big shoulders tense. “We advocate the advancement of the human race through selective reproduction,” said Sable grandly. Dinah snapped, “That’s a fancy way of saying you’re willing to sterilize anybody who doesn’t fit your mold of somebody fit to reproduce.” Sable shrugged and held his hands out flat, palms upward. “I suppose that’s true, Ms. Harris. Nevertheless, that’s the direction we feel the human race should take.” Cage glanced through his notebook again. “Qualities that should be highly prized by the human race include intelligence and freedom from physical and mental illness, which would then eliminate poverty and criminality. Have I got that right?” “It’s a bit more complex than that, Detective, but in essence that’s correct.” “I see. Does your politically incorrect organization condone murder, Mr. Sable?” Detective Cage’s words dropped in an icy staccato in the silent room. Mr. Sable’s mouth dropped open. “No, absolutely not! We’re a humanitarian organization.” Dinah muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Sable opened his mouth to reply but Cage cut him off: “Are there human beings living among us right now whom you would consider to be unworthy of life?” “I don’t know if I’d put it that way. . . .” “You make it pretty clear that anybody of substandard intelligence or mental illness or of a criminal mindset really shouldn’t be alive,” Cage continued. “Have you ever acted on that belief?” “Listen!” said Sable, looking wild-eyed. “I admit that I do believe that. But my organization believes in prevention. We are proactive, not 79

A Dinah Harris Mystery reactive. That means we think the problem should have been taken care of before conception and birth. By no means do we condone violence of any kind.” “You think forced sterilization isn’t violence?” demanded Dinah, half-rising from her chair. Cage shot her a warning look and asked, “Where were you two nights ago?” Sable looked confused and worried. “Wait, am I a suspect in something? Do you think I had something to do with murder?” “Yes. Where were you two nights ago?” Cage remained calm and unflappable. There was a period of silence as Sable tried to remember. Finally he said, with some triumph, “I was at the country club for dinner with my wife and some friends. It was a fundraiser and there were hundreds of people there.” “What time?” “Uh . . . got there at six, left at about midnight. We went back to our place for drinks and we were up until about two,” said Sable. Cage wrote it down dutifully and obtained the names and addresses of the man’s friends while Sable wiped sweat from his forehead. “So what happened?” he asked. “Where were you five nights ago?” Cage asked, which immediately sent the other man into another sweating episode. Again he was silent for a moment. “We did stock take here that night,” he said, relief evident. “I was here with two staff members until about eleven, eleven-thirty.” Dinah was a little disappointed, but not surprised. The man sitting in front of them didn’t match the physical descriptions given by the working girls or Reverend Notting of the man thought to be the killer. “Can you tell me what I was a suspect in?” Sable asked. Cage briefly explained the two murders but didn’t give Sable much information. While it was probable that the supermarket owner hadn’t been involved in the murders, it was entirely possible that another member of the eugenics organization, Future of Life, had been. Or that Sable had ordered the killings. Dinah told Cage as much as they returned to the unmarked police car. 80

The Shadowed Mind The big detective nodded. “I agree. We need to understand more about these eugenic folks. We need to find an expert.” ****

Edward Sable peered through his window and watched the unmarked police car leave. His hands shaking, he took a few deep breaths, and then returned to his computer. Calling up the email list of the members in the Movement, he sent out a quick email to all of them entitled: URGENT, SKYPE ME IN 15 MINUTES. He brought up Skype on his computer and waited for the others to call in, drumming his fingers impatiently. Eventually the Skype calls began trickling in. Sable knew he wouldn’t be able to have everyone present — it wouldn’t be a discussion most people could have at work or college — but most would find a way to call in. “Hi, Eddie,” said one of the ladies, a middle-aged woman named Angela. “What’s going on?” “Hi, everyone,” Eddie Sable said. “Sorry for the urgency to this meeting, but something’s happened that I thought you should all know about.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “I’ve just had a visit by a homicide detective. Apparently, I was a suspect in a couple of murders until just now.” “What have you been up to, Eddie?” laughed Angela. “It’s not funny,” said Eddie tersely. “The police weren’t kidding around. I don’t know the specifics of the murders in question, but they tracked me down through the website. For some reason, they seem to think that eugenics has something to do with it.” There was silence. “Well, did you do anything we should know about?” one of the younger male members, Leonard, asked. “No, I didn’t. Thankfully I had alibis for both murders.” Eddie waited then asked, “Has anyone else done anything we should know about?” “Who was murdered?” Angela asked. “I don’t know,” said Eddie. “The police asked me to provide an alibi for two nights ago and five nights ago.” Angela’s fingers flew over the keys and she looked momentarily distracted as she searched the online news sites for information on the murders. 81

A Dinah Harris Mystery Everyone waited in silence for her to speak. Finally, she said, “There isn’t much about it, but I have found a mention of the murder of a street kid five nights ago and the murder of a half-way house resident two nights ago.” Someone snorted. “Why bother even reporting that?” “The major newspapers didn’t,” replied Angela. “I can’t believe the police are even involved,” Leonard said. “Good riddance, I say.” “Leonard!” Angela said. “Well, it’s true. That’s exactly what we all believe, don’t we?” said Leonard bluntly. “Eddie posted an article on the website just last week about trying to eliminate people with low IQs from the breeding pool. How is this different?” “Well . . . it’s murder,” said Angela. The other members looked on the argument with interest. “Yeah, and if neither of these victims had children, then I’d say society has been saved an awful lot of time and money,” replied Leonard, again bluntly. “Selective reproduction is one thing,” said Eddie gravely. “Actually murdering someone is quite another.” “I don’t really see what the problem is,” repeated Leonard. “Look at the bigger picture, people. Has the elimination of those two victims resulted in a greater good for society?” “Good point, Leonard,” a young female, Susan, piped in. “Definitely the greater good.” “For pity’s sake, don’t say that to the police,” said Eddie. “They won’t empathize with your opinion.” “I won’t,” said Leonard. “I know better than that. But just think: weak or sick members of any animal group are left behind or sacrificed for the greater good of the group.” “Right,” agreed Susan. “Last week on National Geographic I saw a program where a herd of wildebeests left behind one that had been injured for the lions to take. It stopped the lions from pursuing the rest of the herd.” “There you go,” said Leonard. “If wildebeests are smart enough to do that, why isn’t the human race?” “I don’t think . . .” Eddie began. 82

The Shadowed Mind “We’re lucky we don’t have any natural predators hunting us, like lions hunt wildebeests,” continued Leonard. “But it’s also a curse, because the weak and sick members of our society not only survive, but often thrive. So instead of letting nature take its course, we allow our species to become contaminated. Before you know it, we’ll be devolving instead of evolving. Then we. . . .” “Leonard, can you just shut up for a second?” Eddie broke in, exasperated. “I don’t think any of us disagrees with you, necessarily. The reason for this entire conference call is to warn you that the cops might come sniffing around. And if they do, I’m telling you not to go on like you just did. Okay?” “Okay, okay,” said Leonard. He was silent for several moments. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. Just for the record.” “Right. Anyone have anything else they’d like to add?” Eddie asked. Everyone shook his or her head. “Okay. I’ll see you all at the next meeting.” Eddie ended the call and shook his head, staring at the blank wall of his office. Everyone knew that Leonard was a hothead. Was he also a murderer? He had one of the more extreme viewpoints of the group, but as far as Eddie knew, he had never exhibited any violent tendencies. Still, you just never knew. Eddie resolved to keep an eye on Leonard. ****

Ella jerked awake, her heart racing and sweat shining on her forehead. She was haunted by a recurring dream wherein her father lay in a hospital bed, attached to tubes and machines. As she reached down to turn the life support machine off, her father would suddenly wake and grab her arm violently. “Why are you trying to kill me?” he would demand. “You are a murderer!” Ella sat on the side of her bed, trying to quiet her pounding heart. She sat that way for several minutes, trying to think of how she would get through the day. Since that disturbing conversation with the stranger in the park, her thoughts had been troubled. What would her father have wanted? He had been a proud, strong man. He was the rock of his family. To be reduced to a frail shell, without the use of his faculties, would have been a fate worse than death. 83

A Dinah Harris Mystery Her heart broke several times a day, upon finding him standing in the kitchen thoroughly confused by the toaster, or roaming the corridor unsure of where he was, or unable to dress himself. Ella shook her head and decided to take a shower. But the relentless roar of her mind didn’t stop. Euthanasia? Surely that was not the answer. Ella had trouble even thinking of putting her father into a nursing home, where at least he could receive adequate medical care and he could no longer scare ordinary citizens. Putting him down like the family dog was unthinkable. Ella emerged from the bathroom, her hair still wet. Her father stood in the hallway, staring at her. “Who are you?” he demanded, glaring at her with a venom Ella had never seen before. “What are you doing in my house?” “Dad, it’s me. Ella.” The old man still glared at her, no sign of recognition on his face. “Your daughter.” He snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have any children. I’m not even married!” Ella digested this, realizing her father was currently locked into a time and place in his memory she really knew nothing about. “I’m just doing the cleaning,” she said lamely, trying to talk her way out of confrontation. “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?” John Barnett shook his head as though she were a first-class idiot. He stalked away, heading for the family room. Ella breathed a sigh of relief and followed him downstairs. She quietly worked in the kitchen, making two cups of tea. Her father accepted the tea without further comment and Ella returned to the kitchen, seeking solitude. Ella thought about what she knew of Alzheimer’s disease. Her father would continue to deteriorate rapidly, and could start to exhibit violent tendencies. Eventually he would be totally dependent and his physical health would suffer. Most Alzheimer’s patients died from complications such as pneumonia. Her father had been diagnosed seven years ago and, on average, he had another three years to live. Could she really cope with deterioration in her father, to the extent that she would have to feed him, bathe him, and assist with bathroom activities? 84

The Shadowed Mind Feeling a heavy dread drape across her heart, Ella decided she needed to reach out. She dialed the number of her pastor, the Reverend Cameron Lockhart, at the First Baptist Church. His secretary put her straight through, hearing the shaky desperation in her voice. “Ella, how are you?” Reverend Lockhart said, his voice warm and clear. “I really need your help on something,” Ella said, on the edge of tears. She swallowed and told herself to relax. “It’s about Dad.” “What can I do?” Lockhart asked. He knew all about John Barnett’s struggle with his illness, and the subsequent toll it was taking on Ella. Ella told him the story of her conversation with the stranger at the park about euthanasia. “Ever since then, I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking that Dad would hate what he’s become. Then I feel horribly guilty for even thinking about it. I don’t know what to do.” “Ella, I understand. You’re probably exhausted and resentful. It’s totally normal to start wondering about what life would be like if you didn’t have this big burden,” said Lockhart gently. “You need help and support. Unfortunately, this stranger at the park caught you at a vulnerable time and poisoned your thoughts.” “Please put this to rest for me,” said Ella quietly. “Please tell me what the church thinks about euthanasia.” “We don’t support it,” said Lockhart gently. “One of our fundamental Christian tenets is the sanctity of human life. Therefore we mustn’t condone murder — which euthanasia certainly is — of any sort. A human being has an eternal soul, which sets us apart from animals. All human life is valuable, no matter how sick, disabled, or old that life happens to be.” Ella nodded into the phone, and then realized the reverend wouldn’t be able to see her. “Go on.” “Secondly, the Bible is pretty clear about how we should treat human life. In Genesis chapter 9, verses 5 and 6, God says, ‘Murder is forbidden, for to kill a person is to kill a living being made in God’s image.’ There are no qualifications to that statement, you’ll notice. God does not say, murder is forbidden except if someone becomes too much of a burden. There is also an example of euthanasia being executed 85

A Dinah Harris Mystery on the battlefield in 2 Samuel, chapter 1, where an injured King Saul asked an Amalekite to kill him. The Amalekite did so, and was subsequently punished by King David. He was not praised for being merciful and putting Saul out of his misery. Instead, King David condemned the Amalekite to death for killing the Lord’s anointed one. I think it’s pretty clear what God expects of us in relation to this matter.” Ella wiped tears from her cheeks. “Thank you. I knew that it was wrong, but I didn’t know why.” “Listen, Ella,” said Lockhart. “You are under an enormous amount of pressure and I think you really need to consider obtaining external medical help for your father. There is a limit to how much any person can do by herself.” “I know,” said Ella wearily. “How is it that I can think about euthanasia with less guilt than I can about putting Dad into a nursing home?” “Euthanasia can seem like the easiest way out,” said Lockhart. “If you put your father into a home, you still have to visit him and continually deal with the emotions that decision may have brought up. I suppose with euthanasia, it’s all over one way or the other.” Ella finished her conversation with Reverend Lockhart and rested her head on the wall next to the phone. The answers were obvious, of course. She had known what Lockhart had told her all along in her heart. Yet when it was the middle of the night and she found her father staring with bewilderment at the latch on the front door; or when he took his teacup to the kitchen and completely forgot what to do with it, or when he thought that she, his daughter, was in fact his young wife, Ella couldn’t help but wonder why God’s will sometimes was so hard.

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he afternoon would be spent talking to a eugenics specialist, a professor of global, international, and comparative history at Georgetown University. Again, Samson Cage was content to drive in silence, seeing no particular need for conversation. After a while, the silence began to grate on Dinah and she asked, “How often do you get to work cases by yourself?” Cage glanced at her and for a moment she thought she saw caution, worry, and anxiety flicker across his face. He said, “All the time.” “I still don’t see how your superiors approve that,” said Dinah, shaking her head. “At the Bureau, we didn’t have a choice.” Cage shrugged. “Like I said, as long as I get results, they leave me alone.” 88

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“When was the last time you worked with a partner?” Dinah asked curiously. Her question did something to Cage. Like a giant roller door, a protective front slammed down over Cage’s face and the possibility of any further conversation suddenly ceased. Dinah recognized the stony, flat expression that he usually wore re-appear and his eyes narrow. His silence seemed to be cold. Dinah knew better than to push the issue, and so she stared out the window. They arrived at the history college campus and as Dinah climbed out of the car, she stared up at the majestic brick buildings and manicured gardens in awe. It was a beautiful university, established by the Jesuits and lovingly maintained since being founded. The history department was located at the Intercultural Center, on the east side of the campus, and Cage set off at a cracking pace. Dr. Nelson Sharp waited for them in his office and ushered them into modern ergonomic chairs near his desk. Cage squirmed his bulk around, trying to find a comfortable position in his impractical chair. Dr. Sharp didn’t look like a college professor. He was tall and lean, with dark hair gelled into a fashionable spike and trendy, square glasses. His office was decorated in the sparse minimalist style, with low, streamlined, eco-friendly furniture, the very latest in gadgetry, and an abstract painting that at one angle disturbed Dinah and at another brightened her. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Dr. Sharp,” began Cage, finally settling into a position that looked distinctly painful. “I’m happy to help the authorities wherever I can,” said Dr. Sharp. “What can I do for you?” “As I mentioned on the phone, we’re interested in eugenics,” said Cage. “Let’s assume we know nothing about it and we need a crash course.” “I see.” Dr. Sharp gathered his thoughts for several moments. “It’s a fairly large topic, you realize. The term eugenics was coined in the late 19th century by a cousin of Charles Darwin and describes a philosophy concerning human worth. The term itself means ‘well-born.’ At the time, Western civilization had previously been dominated by 89

A Dinah Harris Mystery Judeo-Christian influence, which included the premise that human beings are answerable to God, and that all human life is sacred. This had begun to change with the philosophy of naturalism beginning to take off, and certainly changed radically upon the publication of Charles Darwin’s Origin of the Species, which, among other things, eliminated the need for God and introduced the concept of the survival of the fittest.” “Sorry to interrupt,” said Dinah. “What do you mean by the philosophy of naturalism?” “The philosophy is concerned with how knowledge is gained,” explained Dr. Sharp. “It requires that scientific hypotheses be tested and observed with respect to natural causes and events only. Anything considered supernatural is immediately discounted. The idea of God was already being supplanted by the time Darwin came along.” Dinah nodded. “Sure. Go on.” “Scientists began using this theory of evolution to explain other supposedly scientific ideas, such as the science of social engineering, which we have come to know as eugenics. At the same time, Darwinists argued that human life was no different to animal life, and that death was no longer an enemy but necessary and even beneficial to the progression of the human race. This is, of course, in direct contrast to Christianity.” Dr. Sharp paused and seemed to be thinking. “Of course, I should stress that the devaluing of human life and the change to morality that occurred at the time shouldn’t be placed solely on the shoulders of Darwin. There had already been a move toward naturalism amongst scientists and philosophers of the era. However, most of the influential scientists, philosophers, and ethicists of the time relied heavily on Darwin when formulating their social policies, and readily admit to doing so.” Dr. Sharp shrugged. “Most of the changes to philosophy and science were happening in Europe. “At the same time, America was experiencing great civil unrest. The industrialization of the country saw people leave farms and migrate to cities for the first time in modern history. One of the great problems of industrialization was the lack of adequate housing in the cities and the exploitation of the working classes by the rich. Add to this mix burgeoning immigration from southern and eastern parts of Europe. 90

The Shadowed Mind America experienced great economic fluctuations, the rise of aggressive labor unions, and widespread poverty. “Society began to experience problems on a large scale, which included criminality, poverty, and civil unrest, and seemed powerless to solve these problems. At the time, charities and churches addressed these problems through education, for example. Since scientific progression was flourishing, society thought that science could be used to solve these new urban problems. As scientists gained a basic understanding of genetics, they began to think that many of society’s problems could be explained and treated through genetics. It was thought that undesirable traits such as poverty, criminality, alcoholism, and prostitution were caused by defective genes, passed down through the family lines. A solution for this was eugenics, which can be further classified into positive and negative eugenics. Positive eugenics is the encouragement of the healthy and intelligent to have more children, for example. Negative eugenics discourages so-called undesirables from reproducing through sterilization, abortion, and restricting immigration. In the United States, negative eugenics practices were embraced.” “So this is where the laws for sterilization came from?” Dinah interjected. “That is correct, as well as marriage laws forbidding the union of inter-racial couples.” Dr. Sharp took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “So these undesirables were also categorized by race?” Dinah asked. “Yes, among other things. For example, marriage between AfricanAmericans and white Americans was invalid in 28 states by the early 1900s. The same discrimination applied for marriages between Native Americans and white Americans. With regard to immigration, in 1882 the Chinese were the first specific race to be excluded from immigration. In 1924, the Immigration Restriction Act managed to reduce the number of immigrants down to about 20 percent of the years preceding, and vastly reduced the number of immigrants allowed from southern and eastern Europe, who were said to be intellectually and morally defective. But defectives or undesirables were also categorized by things, such as intelligence or promiscuity.” Dinah shook her head. “I had no idea this even happened.” 91

A Dinah Harris Mystery Dr. Sharp nodded. “Most people don’t. We look back on that period and wonder what they were thinking. But at the time, it was considered to be good scientific practice.” “So when did eugenics cease to be considered good scientific practice?” Cage asked. Dr. Sharp smiled. “In short — the Holocaust.” Dinah was aghast. “Actually, that’s just my opinion,” said Dr. Sharp. “Society changed a great deal anyway. A greater understanding of genetics led scientists to realize that behavior is not genetic. But we do know that Hitler and Nazism drew heavily on eugenics to justify their atrocities.” Cage’s cell phone rang and he stood to answer it. He spoke quietly, and then said to Dinah, “We have to go.” Dr. Sharp stood to shake their hands. “Do you mind if we come back to talk to you some more?” Detective Cage asked. “It seems I have much to learn about this subject.” Dr. Sharp nodded. “No problem. You know where to find me — it’s summer, and my class load is light.” As they left the professor’s office, Dinah said, “Where are we going?” “Medical examiner’s office,” replied Cage. “Benjamin Steffan’s autopsy.” ****

The killer cruised in his van, which still bore the markings of the Drug Response Team. He was again well stocked with coffee, sandwiches, and blankets, but really they were just props. He wanted to find Ashleigh, his designated next victim. He parked in the same place as last night and waited. He hated waiting. He was used to stalking, controlling, and manipulating, not sitting around, waiting. As with last night, the homeless began to emerge from the long, late-evening shadows. The killer went through the motions, handing out sandwiches, coffee, and smiles as though he actually cared. All the while, he scanned the crowds, searching for Ashleigh. After some time had passed, he began to doubt himself. Perhaps she was too flighty after all. Perhaps he hadn’t given her a good enough reason to come back. Who knew? 92

The Shadowed Mind Then, he saw her. He felt a secret thrill, knowing he’d picked the right prey. She edged forward, like a frightened gazelle seeking a drink at a water hole, while he, a predator, waited in the shadows. He bestowed upon her a beaming smile. “Ashleigh! I’m so glad to see you,” he said warmly. He handed her a packet of sandwiches. “How are you?” She shrugged. “I’m surviving. I’m looking for a job. Then I hope I can find somewhere to live. That’s pretty much all my plans at the moment.” “Can your family really offer no help?” the killer asked. It was crucial he understood her social genesis; it was the crux of the message he was trying to send. She looked at the ground. “I have more ex-boyfriends that you can count on two hands, but none of them want to help me.” “What about your parents?” “Never knew my dad,” she said. “I believe he left Mom right after I was born.” She offered a brief, sad smile. “I was probably too much for him to handle, right?” It was interesting, reflected the killer, how children could carry the sins of their parents on their shoulders and never quite understand why none of it was their own fault. “We moved around a lot,” continued Ashleigh. “Mom worked minimum wage and was always looking for a man to save her.” She shook her head. “Hard to meet a man like that in a sleazy motel or cheap diner.” “Did you have any brothers or sisters?” the killer asked. “Nope, just me and Mom — and whatever boyfriend she had at the time.” “Where is your mom now?” Ashleigh shrugged. “When I was 16, the boyfriend she had at the time didn’t like me, so they asked me to leave. I haven’t seen her since.” It was just another wretched tale of family discontent, pain, and hopelessness. The killer was willing to bet that Ashleigh’s mother had lived with a similar level of disdain and neglect in her own childhood. And so the cycle continued. “Do you have any children?” the killer asked. 93

A Dinah Harris Mystery “No, thank goodness,” said Ashleigh, then she added quickly: “Not because I don’t want children. I’m just glad I haven’t subjected a child to this life.” “Did you finish high school?” he inquired. “No, once I got kicked out, I had to find a job.” Ashleigh stopped to devour a sandwich. “Listen, I have an idea,” said the killer. “The way out of poverty is education, you know. You could create a much better life for yourself.” Ashleigh laughed harshly. “Sure. I’m just going to send myself to Harvard.” The killer smiled. “What if I can get you into a shelter while you get your high school equivalency? Then you could work part time and enroll in some courses at community college. It’s not exactly Harvard, but it would be a big step up for you.” Ashleigh stared at him. “You could do that?” “I sure could. Would you be interested?” Ashleigh seemed to be choking back tears. “Yes . . . I’m interested! I just . . . don’t know why you would do that for me.” He smiled again. “I told you, Ashleigh. I don’t do this for me; I do it to help people.” Ashleigh didn’t notice the lie, but the killer was a seasoned and talented liar. “I want to help you succeed, if that’s what you want.” Ashleigh sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “Nobody has ever been this nice to me before. I don’t know what to say.” “Here is what I need you to do,” said the killer. “Gather together your things and be back here at the same time tomorrow evening. I should have a place in the shelter ready for you by then. Okay?” Ashleigh nodded, a smile lighting up her otherwise weary face, and she briefly touched his arm. “How can I thank you? This is the most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me.” Tomorrow night I’ll get all the thanks I need. “If you can pull yourself out of this situation and live a better life, then I’ll be happy,” he told her. He watched her walk away, a little extra bounce in her step. Then he congratulated himself on such an intricately devised plan. It just goes to show, he told himself as he packed up the van, what superior intelligence, breeding, and genetics meant: the difference 94

The Shadowed Mind between a comfortable middle-class existence and a poverty-stricken, hopeless life on the street. ****

The medical examiner’s office was quiet; most of the staff had gone home. Only Dr. Gene Schlabach remained, finalizing the autopsy of Benjamin Steffan. He greeted Dinah and Samson Cage quietly, as the two investigators looked over the body. Dinah looked at the body very carefully. Again, there was very little evidence of external trauma or violence — no wounds, bruising, or blood. Benjamin Steffan had not been a big man in life, but in death he looked frail and shrunken, almost child-like. Silently, Dinah and Cage pulled the plastic protective wear over their clothes while Dr. Schlabach finished making notes in the file. “What did you discover, Dr. Schlabach?” Cage finally asked. Dr. Schlabach stood over the body in seeming reverence. “The victim was on a high concentration of psychotropic drugs,” he replied. “Without reading his medical history, I would presume he was being treated for schizophrenia or some other severe mental illness. No evidence of alcohol or other drugs in his system. No recent trauma is evident. As you can see, no visible injury or marks on the body. I doubt it took much to subdue him.” “We believe the killer built some relationship with him, so there would have been a level of trust between killer and victim,” said Detective Cage. “I see,” said Dr. Schlabach. “That would certainly be a contributing factor. I should also mention that the psychotropic drugs would have caused some side effects in the victim, which may have increased his vulnerability. It’s difficult for me to say, because I didn’t examine the victim in life, but some of the common side effects include muscle spasms and a slowing down of movement and speech. His reaction time to external stimuli may have been slower than yours or mine. Again, this would have made subduing the victim easier for the killer.” What a coward, thought Dinah of the killer, feeling anger surge. He chooses a sick, weakened man and a young girl to victimize. She glanced at Cage and could see from the expression on his face that the big detective was thinking much the same thing. 95

A Dinah Harris Mystery “There isn’t much else to note,” continued Dr. Schlabach. “I didn’t find any foreign DNA, hairs, fibers, or material on the body. Was the victim left at the murder scene or was the body moved?” “We don’t believe the body was moved after the murder,” said Cage. Dr. Schlabach nodded. “That explains the lack of evidence on the body itself. The killer chooses a very quick, neat method of death, and does not need to move the body afterward, all of which adds up to very little in the way of trace evidence.” “I guess he died from the broken neck?” asked Cage. If he felt frustration at Dr. Schlabach’s words, he didn’t show it. It must be nice, Dinah thought, to be so calm and collected. She seemed to have emotions springing up inside her like unpredictable hot geysers, all of which played across her face. “Yes. As I’ve said before, this method is very uncommon.” Dr. Schlabach positioned himself behind the head of Benjamin Steffan. He lifted the head and Dinah immediately saw the heavy, disconnected loll that indicated a broken neck. “His neck was broken by torsion,” said Dr. Schlabach. “This obviously is very similar to the murder of the young girl, Lakeisha Tennant. Both murders are so similar and so uncommon I would imagine they’re related.” “Don’t you see broken neck deaths occur reasonably frequently?” Dinah asked. “What makes this method so uncommon?” Dr. Schlabach paused for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “The bone broken in this case, the axis bone, is located very close to the base of the skull. In fact, only the atlas bone separates the axis bone and the head and it allows rotation of the head. Most neck fractures are caused by motor vehicle accidents or sporting accidents, and fracture occurs due to impact or pressure.” Dr. Schlabach used his hands to illustrate. He continued, “A person diving into shallow water will compress the head and neck to a degree that the bone will break. A motor vehicle accident may involve impact or velocity that causes the bone to break. Very rarely do we see neck injury caused by twisting, which is known as torsion. It requires great force applied at precisely the right angle. That’s why I say it’s an uncommon method of murder.” 96

The Shadowed Mind Dinah immediately thought of Zach’s suggestion of martial arts groups extreme enough to include such a move in their repertoire. “Anything else you need to know?” Dr. Schlabach asked, as Dinah and Cage mulled this information over silently. Cage shook his head. “No, I think we’re done.” They watched while Dr. Schlabach gently pulled a sheet over Steffan’s body and returned the trolley to the cold storage locker. All three of them stripped off their plastic protective gowns, booties, and masks and exited the building. As Dr. Schlabach locked the front door, he asked Cage, “How is the department holding up after the Internal Affairs investigation?” Cage glanced at Dinah and managed to convey in those briefest of seconds that he didn’t want to talk about it in front of her. She was instantly intrigued. “Well,” said Dr. Schlabach, after a few moments of awkward silence. “Good night, then.” Dinah climbed into the passenger seat of the detective’s unmarked police car and opened her mouth to start speaking. “Before you even ask,” Cage interrupted, “I can’t talk about it. It’s confidential and that’s the way it’ll stay. Okay?” Dinah just smiled at him. “I was only going to ask what you have planned for tomorrow.” Cage shook his head like he didn’t believe her. ****

Detective Samson Cage wanted to spend the following day learning more about the martial arts. It was one of few leads to follow, but it could be the break they needed. Dr. Schlabach was right in his summation that the method of killing was obscure and if they could find a school or master teaching this particular maneuver, it might just lead them straight to the killer. Detective Cage had arranged to meet with a Japanese-American man named Lawrence Tetyaki, who ran a karate school in the inner city. Tetyaki offered free classes for the city’s disadvantaged youth, which often included gang members. En route, Detective Cage told Dinah about how he had met the karate master. During a previous case, a gang member, despite successfully evading the police, had still 97

A Dinah Harris Mystery turned up faithfully to his free karate class. Apart from that particular young man, who’d been immediately arrested, Tetyaki had great success in teaching these unruly and angry young men and women about discipline, self-belief, strength, and confidence. The school was located in a run-down warehouse on the edge of the industrial precinct. While it looked deserted and unused from the outside, inside the place was scrupulously clean and organized, and bustling with activity. Dinah saw classes ranging from young children to middle-aged and older adults taking place, and she smiled at the sight of a little boy of about six enthusiastically showing off a series of punches and kicks while yelling at the top of his voice. She thought of her lost little boy, Sammy, and wondered had he lived, what sport or hobby he would have loved to do. Dinah felt the familiar heavy swathe of sadness settle in her heart as she and Cage were led to a small training room where Tetyaki was training one-on-one with a young man. She would have to deal with it later, she thought. For now, it was important to concentrate on the task at hand. Tetyaki had about 20 years on his opponent and was physically smaller, but after a flurry of moves, he had his student on the floor on his back. Tetyaki spoke softly to the student, then glanced up and saw his visitors. He nodded to them and approached while his student got up and left the room. Tetyaki was about 50 and only about five foot seven inches, but his frame was wiry, lean, and strong. He had a gleaming bald head and a thin, neat moustache. He bowed slightly and greeted them. Cage stiffly bowed his huge body in return, but Dinah didn’t know what to do, so she just smiled. “Still trying to keep the streets safe?” Cage asked as they sat in chairs at the edge of the room. “Aren’t we all, Detective?” the karate master replied in a melodic voice. “Are you here to arrest one of my students again?” Cage laughed. “Not this time, unless you think I should,” he said. “We’re actually after some information.” Tetyaki raised his eyebrows in inquiry, and Cage explained the unusual neck fractures in their two victims. Tetyaki frowned as he listened. When Cage had finished, he sat in thoughtful silence. “This is troubling,” he said, at length. “While karate 98

The Shadowed Mind emerged many years ago as a type of combat, these days it is practiced as a sport, for self-defense, and for self-development. And while it is a contact sport, students are usually extensively trained in both attacking and defensive techniques so no one really gets hurt. I don’t recall ever teaching any of my students techniques that would make them capable of killing another person. It doesn’t sit right with me.” He fell silent for a time, and then said, “You’ll need to move away from the more mainstream martial arts, such as jujitsu, taekwondo, and judo. None of these advocate the level of violence needed to execute the neck torsion of which you speak.” “What’s the difference between the different martial arts?” Dinah asked. “I know next to nothing about any of them.” “They all differ in technique and form,” explained Tetyaki. “The biggest difference is from where they originated, and I should add that it isn’t exclusively an Asian concept. Ancient civilizations such as the Babylonians and Egyptians show some signs of hand-to-hand combat in their ancient murals. Essentially they were all established as a form of hand-to-hand combat to defend oneself from physical threat. Some martial arts focus on a particular area of combat. I speak very broadly, but for example, karate concentrates on open-hand strikes, while judo incorporates throwing, grappling, and pinning techniques. Jujitsu focuses also on submission holds.” “Would any of these types of martial arts teach this neck torsion as an example of what not to do?” asked Cage. Tetyaki considered. “Perhaps. However, even the arts that practice choke holds or submission holds, such as judo, do so in a way that minimizes injury. A choke hold could obviously kill someone if applied for long enough, but it’s not a particularly sophisticated maneuver. Similarly, any of the throws executed sloppily might lead to a knee, elbow, or shoulder injury rather than a potentially fatal one.” “Okay, so if we’re looking at a less well-known, underground type of martial art, where should we start?” Cage asked. Again, Tetyaki was silent for some time. “Every martial art has the capacity for a rogue master to teach skills that are life-threatening. It is difficult for me to say. I will look into it for you. However, my first guess would be to look into the arts used by guerrillas and mercenaries in the jungles of Asia. They would certainly know how to kill a 99

A Dinah Harris Mystery man with their bare hands. In the meantime, I would start with some basic Internet searches. There are forums and discussion boards for all sorts of topics and eventually you will stumble across some important information.” “What are those arts called?” Cage asked. “Start with Muay Thai and Maharlika Kuntaw,” suggested Tetyaki. “The former originates from Thailand and was used by the military in training soldiers. Before it was regulated by the Thai government it was a particularly vicious form of the art. The latter is Filipino and their history tells us that Magellan was repelled by warriors trained in Kuntaw — in fact, many of Magellan’s men died during that battle in 1521. It is thought that Kuntaw was used by Filipino guerrillas during the Japanese occupation in the 1940s. While both of these arts are respectable and reputable today, both have the capacity to be manipulated into something much more brutal.” “Great. We’ll start there,” said Cage, after copying down the names of the two martial arts in his notebook. “I’ll make some inquiries. I have many contacts in many different arts, and if there are rogue masters operating, I think I’d hear about it,” said Tetyaki. “Thanks, Master,” said Cage, bowing again. “Keep up the good work.” “You, too, Detective,” smiled Tetyaki, bowing in return. He turned to Dinah and, surprisingly, took her hand. “Go gently,” he said, looking at her directly. “I see your sadness burdens you.” Touched, Dinah didn’t know what to say, but bowed her head in gratitude.

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usk sent long shadows creeping across the windows, while the summer evening light filtering through the windows turned into golden filigree filaments. Ella just stared out of the family room window, approaching exhaustion. Had she eaten today? She couldn’t remember. She thought she’d managed to have a shower, but it seemed so long ago. I am close to burnout, she thought, but I am too lethargic to do anything about it. The fight to find a place for her father in a nursing home facility seemed too hard. Holding interviews and discussions to employ a caregiver would require a huge effort. She just wanted to close her eyes and sleep for a week, without the pressing concern of whether her father was wandering through the streets or scaring a small child. 102

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As the twilight deepened, she sat in the darkened room, feeling as though she couldn’t even find the energy to get up from the chair and fix dinner. Suddenly, she heard a rushing sound and felt an extraordinarily sharp, bright pain flare above her left ear. Stunned, she stumbled out of the chair, holding her hands to the painful throb in her head and she wildly tried to work out what had happened. Standing in the darkened doorway was her father, with his shoe in his hand, a scared and anxious look on his face. His other shoe lay to the side of the chair, where it had glanced off Ella’s head. “What are you doing?” she cried, the familiar mixture of frustration, anger, and despair surging up in her throat like bitter bile. “What are you doing in my house?” demanded John Barnett querulously. “Get out now!” “It’s me, Ella,” she snapped, unable to control her anger. “I live here!” “You do not live here,” retorted the old man. “Now get out!” Something inside Ella let go, perhaps the last vestige of self-control, the last piece of empathy and compassion she could muster. “I will stay here,” she said, with fearsome quiet, “because I look after you. You have no one else. You cannot live on your own. You are totally dependent on me! Do not tell me to leave again!” Right on cue, her father let go of the other shoe, again aimed at her head. This time Ella ducked and sustained no blow on her head. Her anger overwhelmed her and she found herself only inches away from her father’s face. “How dare you throw things at me!” she raged. “I am so sick of being stuck in this house and looking after you. I am sick of having no life of my own. I am sick of being abused in my own home. I hate this stupid disease and I hate what it’s done to you. I hate what it’s done to me! I wish you’d just leave me alone for even an hour so I can have some time to just think! Why do I feel so obligated to you? I wish I could just put you in a nursing home and be done with you. You know, sometimes I wish you’d just die!” 103

A Dinah Harris Mystery Stunned by the violence of her own words, Ella gasped and stepped back, looking at the man she’d just verbally abused. His eyes were wild and scared, his fear at not understanding his surroundings palpable. He hunched away from her, probably wondering if this stranger bore him any goodwill at all. The guilt pierced Ella’s heart as surely as a blade of steel. With a torrent of self-loathing pouring through her, she shakily led the old man to his chair in the family room. She was barely able to keep control of the raging emotions within her. Once he was safely in front of the television, Ella fled to her bedroom and shut the door. Flinging herself on her bed, she allowed the tears to flow. Her face buried in her pillow, she sobbed hard like she hadn’t done since she was a child. Then, she could count on her father to find her, kiss her cheeks, and make her world all right. Now, she felt terribly alone and tired and guilty. The most crushing sensation was the realization that there would be no reprieve from the endless task of caring for her father. Inside, she knew that she was most upset at the truth contained in those words. Usually, she clutched those secret, terrible thoughts close so that nobody else knew. But without the safeguard of self-control, she had allowed the truth to ride a wave of angry words. In bald truth — she did wish he would die. She hated seeing him decline from an intelligent, caring father to a shrunken shell of a man who could no longer look after his own basic needs. She hated the severance of the relationship between them — she no longer had a father, but equally, no grave to visit for closure. She hated the loss of her own independence, her inability to work or see friends, and the freedom to relax. It was true: she looked forward to the day when she no longer had to battle through each day and deal with such weighty issues. She looked forward to the day when her father would be at peace and no longer trapped in his own torturous, deteriorating brain. When would the shadows in his mind eventually claim him? Had her father had the clarity of mind to ask her for euthanasia at this moment, she knew she’d have done it. Had he expressed a desire to die, she would have honored it. I am some kind of monster, she thought. How can I even contemplate his death? I should be grateful for the limited time we have left together. And how could I show my face at church? 104

The Shadowed Mind Heartsick, Ella stood and went to her window, looking down at the neighborhood below. She wished she could swap lives with any of them, just for one day. ****

Senator David Winters stood at his office window and stretched. He’d instructed his secretary and aides to give him some privacy for an hour, so his office was blessedly silent, save for the hurried footsteps of those traversing the halls outside. The Senate had just sat a marathon session, lasting into the early hours of the morning in an attempt to have the Health Reform Bill passed. For Winters, there was much riding on the success of the bill being passed, not the least of which was a sizeable deposit of cash in his bank account. Suddenly, his office door swung open and a large man strode through the door, with Winters’ secretary following anxiously. “I’m sorry, sir, he just wouldn’t listen to me,” she said, trying to get past the bulk of Winters’ intruder. “Don’t worry, Trixie,” Winters said, looking at the conservative senator, Jerry Devine, bemusedly. “Make sure we aren’t interrupted any further.” The two men stood, staring at each other like the combatants they intellectually were. “This is most improper,” said Winters finally. “You might have knocked.” “Do you think for one second I don’t know what you and your colleagues are trying to pull?” Devine demanded. The senator from Texas glared at Winters with the full force his six-foot-five frame could garner. Winters shrugged. “How about you tell me what you’re whining about, chief?” His belligerence seemed to infuriate the Texas senator further. “Somehow you manage to cobble together a bill that’s over two thousand pages long,” he said venomously. “It gets thrown to the Senate with the expectation that it will be passed in only a couple of days. There is pressure from every liberal puppet you can find popping up in the media saying that we should deal with the bill expeditiously. Then I see none other than yourself on the news last night, blaming any 105

A Dinah Harris Mystery delays on the conservatives who in your words, ‘want to deny millions of uninsured Americans their fundamental right to health care.’ This is your one chance to explain to me why it’s so important we pass this bill without actually reading it.” Winters swallowed several curse words and maintained a casual, indifferent air. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think it were true.” “You know, I’m mighty sick of you and your buddies in Congress giving the Senate impossibly long bills and expecting us to pass them without thorough and careful analysis,” said Devine, his voice suddenly and worryingly quiet. “It happened with the Financial Regulation Bill in January. It makes me start to wonder if you’re trying to hide something.” Winters had learned long ago in the military how to deal with stress. With a deep breath, he said, “We have nothing to hide. We have a pressing desire to make our health system fairer and accessible to all.” Devine just looked at him, a cynical smirk on his face. “I just don’t quite believe you, Senator. So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to insist that the bill is read in full in the Senate, however long that may take. Let’s see exactly what’s in it. What do you say, chief?” Winters just smiled. “Then I guess you’re going to waste everyone’s time, and I’ll just have to let the American public know that you’re doing it.” “Don’t threaten me with the media, boy,” snapped Devine. “I’ve got my own sources, and when the time comes that I find what you’re trying to hide, they’ll be the first to know.” With that, Devine turned and stormed out of the office. Trixie appeared in the doorway, her forehead still wrinkled with worry. “Is everything okay, sir?” she asked. Winters turned. “I want no further interruptions,” he said frostily. “On pain of losing your job. Understand?” His door was hastily shut and Winters was left to deal with the ramifications of Devine’s threats. The truth was, he couldn’t afford for the bill to be read in full. His provision was small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things but would cease to be so if the conservatives got wind of it. However, the worst possible outcome would be if the media got hold of his amendment. Winters represented California, a state with 106

The Shadowed Mind bastions of conservatism still flourishing in certain pockets. His seat was by no means assured. If he was voted out, his access to money from groups such as the Movement would cease. Winters kicked the side of his desk angrily and cursed Devine. He could not let this happen. The bill had to be passed through the Senate without his provision being read. He’d seen it happen with the Financial Regulation Bill and there was no reason it couldn’t happen again. Winters sat down, controlling his breathing. In time, he felt calm again and he smiled. Devine was a country bully, used to getting his own way by bluster and threats. Winters was smarter, craftier, and more cunning. He would find a way to deal with Senator Devine. ****

Night fell over the city as Dinah devoured a pizza she’d ordered. She was too tired to think about cooking, and her last attempt had been so pathetic that she was a little scared to try again. Sitting in front of her laptop, she was keen to continue looking into eugenics. In the absence of any other solid leads, she hoped that it would eventually lead to the killer. Dinah cruised through several websites until she came across a university website that had archived the history of the eugenics movement in the United States with what appeared to be some credibility. As she read she made notes, and eventually she became so aghast she had to stop. Drumming her fingers on the desk, she pulled out her cell phone and called Detective Cage. “Well,” he said, when his wife called him to the phone. “At least it isn’t the middle of the night.” “I’ve been researching eugenics,” said Dinah, ignoring his jibe. “You won’t believe what I’ve found!” “I guess you’ll tell me,” said Cage. “Eugenicists in the late 19th and early 20th centuries had studied psychiatric traits thought to be inherited, such as schizophrenia,” said Dinah. “They expanded their studies to include physical traits, such as hemophilia. You know what that is? The blood doesn’t clot properly and. . . .” 107

A Dinah Harris Mystery “I know what hemophilia is,” interrupted Cage. “Keep going.” “Okay, so it’s not a bad thing to understand the cause of an illness and whether it’s preventable,” said Dinah. “But then they started applying this principle to social traits, such as sexual immorality, alcoholism, and feeble-mindedness. Eugenicists explained that these traits were likely to originate in races from southern and eastern Europe.” “They actually narrowed it down that far?” Cage asked skeptically. “Indeed. Clearly they had a lot of power and influence, because federal legislation was passed to support these claims. For example, in 1882 the Act to Regulate Immigration was passed, which vastly reduced the number of immigrants from southern and eastern Europe. By 1914, the surgeon general had publicly aligned himself with the eugenics movement. In 1917, Congress expanded prohibited entry into the United States to include idiots. . . .” “Well, I guess you wouldn’t have been allowed in,” said Cage, with what sounded suspiciously like laughter. “Shut up. You wouldn’t have been allowed in either, because you’re an imbecile and that’s what’s next on my list. Not to mention epileptics, and anyone found to be mentally or physically defective.” Dinah stopped, if only to take a breath. “All jokes aside, that is disturbing,” said Cage. “Did you know that by 1928, eugenics was a topic in 376 separate college courses as a legitimate science and that textbooks of the era taught sterilization, racial segregation, and immigration restrictions as worthy public policies?” “I didn’t,” admitted Cage. “The influential writer Madison Grant warned that racial mixing was a social and racial crime, leading America to racial suicide and the eventual disappearance of white civilization altogether,” continued Dinah. “As a result of this thinking, Virginia passed the Racial Integrity Act of 1924, which disallowed marriage between a white person and a person of another race. Alabama and Georgia also passed similar laws.” “Wow,” said Cage very quietly. “But listen to this. Sterilization laws were first passed in 1907 in Indiana, but by 1914, 12 states had enacted laws allowing for the involuntary — yes, involuntary — sterilization of those maintained at 108

The Shadowed Mind the public expense. Such poor individuals included the insane, epileptic, alcoholic, blind, deaf, deformed, orphaned, homeless, and povertystricken. Do you know how many people were involuntarily sterilized under these laws?” “No.” “Sixty thousand people! Sixty thousand! And it continued among institutionalized people until the mid-1970s!” Cage was silent for a while, then he said, “That is mind-blowing, Harris. It’s terrible, but I’m not surprised. What do you think this has to do with our killer?” Dinah took a deep breath and realized she had to calm down. The information she’d just read had made her angry, but Cage was right — what did it have to do with a killer? “Is it possible,” she said, “that the perp killed Lakeisha Tennant and Benjamin Steffan because they would have been deemed undesirable? Both would have fallen into that category quite easily.” And so would I. “I gotta go,” said Cage. “But I think you might be onto something. I’ll talk to you more about it tomorrow, okay?” They hung up and Dinah continued to research the topic. Dinah began to feel sick. The science of eugenics, if it could indeed be called a science, seemed wholly lacking in compassion and totally steeped in ignorance. What wounded her was the constant reference to alcoholics as inferior, unworthy, and substandard human beings. She had a profound weakness, she knew that. The temptation to drink would live within her for the rest of her life. Yet, surely it didn’t overrule the other labels she wore — those of college graduate, FBI agent, mother, and wife. Would the eugenicists have overlooked the good she had done and her obvious intelligence because she possessed an undesirable trait? Could a person really be pigeonholed according to his or her worst flaw? Of course she understood that even today her alcoholism was considered undesirable. Perhaps people might even look down on her. At least today she wouldn’t have been involuntarily sterilized. She stood to stretch and her eyes settled upon the bottle of vodka sent by Senator Winters, nestled cozily on the top shelf above her refrigerator. Her heart began to thump and her brain dumped adrenaline 109

A Dinah Harris Mystery into her system. With sweaty, slick palms, the nasty voice of enticement began to whisper in her ear. I can’t, I mustn’t, I’m clean. I don’t drink anymore. What difference will one little drink make? Just a small one. I can’t, I can’t just stop at one. You can handle it. You’ve learned your lesson. Just having one drink won’t mean that you go straight back to being a raging alcoholic! Yes, it does. Leave me alone! You are so pathetic. Listen to yourself. Is it any wonder you needed to drink to be even vaguely interesting? Hands shaking, Dinah knew that she had to occupy herself. She swiftly left the kitchen and found her Bible. Her counselor, Faith, had suggested that she occupy herself with Bible reading or prayer to combat the cravings. She had started reading the gospel of John, and so she continued, trying to force herself to concentrate. Eventually, the panicky, fluttery feeling in her chest subsided and her hands stopped shaking. She closed her eyes to pray, but her thoughts were still jittery. I’m sorry, God, I can’t seem to organize my thoughts tonight. Please forgive me, but I’m having a hard time beating this alcoholic thing. Is this how hard it’s going to be? Do I have to face this for the rest of time? The answer popped into her mind so quickly it seemed that it didn’t belong to her. Yes, Dinah, but you are not alone.

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his night, the killer waited until darkness draped the city before taking his van back to the streets where the homeless congregated. The balmy summer evening meant that the streets were busy and crowded and so the killer had to think hard about how he was going to deal with Ashleigh. He’d spent the previous night cruising the streets until he had hit upon a plan. She appeared almost immediately, with relief and excitement etched on her face. “I thought you weren’t going to come!” she said. “I’m so excited, I barely slept a wink last night.” He smiled at her. “Sorry I’m late. It took a bit longer than I thought to organize everything, but it’s ready now. Are you ready to start your new life?” 112

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“Absolutely!” Ashleigh threw her backpack — the sum total of her belongings — into the back of the van. “Can I ride in front?” “Yes, of course,” said the killer, closing the back door and jingling his keys. He could scarcely believe how easily this was going. As they drove, Ashleigh chattered incessantly, her excitement obvious. She didn’t seem to notice that he was taking her deep into the industrial area toward Hyattsville, where car lots, manufacturing, and auto repairers were the main tenants. At this time of night, few people still remained in the neighborhood and this was what drew the killer to the area. Finally, he stopped outside a catering business that had put on a nice facade, with picture windows, gables, shutters, and ornate wrought iron. If Ashleigh didn’t look too closely, it could have been a pretty hostel where women down on their luck might go to stay. Preparation is the key, thought the killer, smugly. Ashleigh climbed out of the van. “Wow, this place is really nice,” she exclaimed. “Will I get my own room? Do you think they have a television? I can’t wait to taste real food again!” “Yes,” said the killer absent-mindedly. He’d brought her here for the facade of the building, but also because there was an alley next to the building in which he thought he would finish the job. As imperceptibly as possible he checked around them, trying to see if any workers remained in the surrounding buildings. The street seemed quiet and deserted. “Yes to what?” Ashleigh said teasingly. “The room, food, or TV?” The killer glanced at her indifferently, not bothering about the rapport and trust he’d built anymore. “All of the above.” He handed her the backpack and hunted around in the back for the card he wanted to place on her body. “Hey,” said Ashleigh suddenly. Her voice had changed, becoming wary. “Why does the sign above the door say that this is the Gourmet Gastronomical Company?” The killer gave a fake laugh as he located the card and pushed it into his pocket. “Oh, it’s because that’s the last owner of the building. I 113

A Dinah Harris Mystery don’t think they ever took the sign down. And they don’t want loiterers hanging around.” Ashleigh gave him a strange look. “Who would hang around here?” Think fast. “Some of the women here come from abusive relationships,” he said. “They don’t want the husbands coming down here and getting violent or making a scene.” Nice one. This seemed to satisfy Ashleigh, although the killer knew that it was time to finish things quickly, before Ashleigh started asking more questions. She was still caught up in the excitement of the promise of a new life to think rationally. He gestured toward the alley. “We have to go to the back to be let in.” She walked toward the alley, not sensing the imminent danger. With a quick glance around before he followed her, the killer moved up quickly behind her. She was taken completely by surprise, and she was a small woman. It took only a minute to break her neck and leave her on the concrete. He hunched over her as the life drained from her face, the light in her eyes dimming. He placed the card carefully in the waistband of her jeans. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “But it’s just the way it has to be. Someone has to stop the cycle.” Then he stood, looking around him for any signs that he’d been watched. The street seemed just as quiet as when he’d arrived. He drove the van to an auto dealership a block away. There, under cover of darkness he unscrewed the license plates from the van and swapped them with the plates from a ’67 Mustang. Then he peeled off the markings of the charity he’d claimed to belong to, the Drug Response Team, from the side of the van. He climbed behind the wheel and checked the fuel gauge. He had enough fuel to take him to Dulles International Airport, where he planned to leave the van in long-term parking. From there, he’d catch a cab home. He’d even brought a suitcase with him so it looked like he’d just flown in. You can never be too prepared. He drove away without a second thought to the lifeless body he’d left behind. 114

The Shadowed Mind ****

Dinah had just settled down with her morning cup of black coffee and a croissant when the phone rang. Thinking it must have been Detective Cage, she answered it around a mouthful. “Hi, Dinah. It’s Andy Coleman,” a familiar voice came down the line. Dinah swallowed hastily. “Hey! Hi, Andy,” she said. “Sorry, just had a mouthful of breakfast. How are you?” “Great,” he replied. “Just thought I’d let you know we landed in Washington last night and we’re going to the National Prayer Breakfast at the White House this morning.” “Wow!” said Dinah. “I didn’t know you were pals with the president.” Andy laughed. “I don’t think the president would want to be friends with me! No, I was invited by our senator. He’s a big supporter of the Genesis Legacy.” Dinah immediately thought of the senator with whom she’d had the misfortune of becoming involved, one who bore her ill-will rather than support. “Anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to catch up for lunch,” suggested Andy. “We’re going home tomorrow.” Dinah put down her coffee mug with a bang. “That’d be great,” she said. “I have to pick your brains about something.” She met with Andy and his wife, Sandra, for barbecue ribs not far from Capitol Hill. She had first met the Colemans during the Smithsonian case. They had been friends with the murdered secretary of the Smithsonian and had provided valuable information in hunting down his killer. In time, they had grown to be friends as well; Sandra helping Dinah to understand God and His acceptance of her, even in her broken and failed state of humanity. The Colemans ran a Christian ministry called the Genesis Legacy, which sought to protect the foundations of Christianity and defend the Bible. Andy Coleman spent much of his life defending the authority and authenticity of the Bible, including its account of creation, as atheists and evolutionists waged a fierce debate about the origins of human beings, the earth, and the universe. Now, sitting over a plate of baby back ribs and a root beer, Dinah asked, “Have you ever heard of eugenics?” 115

A Dinah Harris Mystery Andy raised his eyebrows and smiled sardonically. “Yes, I have. I know you’re not much of a reader, Dinah, but I sort of did write a book about it.” “Really?” Dinah reddened with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” “I should stipulate that it’s not totally about eugenics. There are a host of other subjects in it, too.” Andy laughed to show he wasn’t offended. “What is it you want to know?” Dinah explained the bare facts of the case, and how the investigation seemed to be headed down the path toward the subject. She explained what Dr. Nelson Sharp had told them during their visit to the university. She ended by saying, “I guess I just want your take on the whole thing.” Andy nodded and steepled his hands under his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose what it all comes down to is that eugenics, like the ideas of evolution and the big bang, is what we’re left with when you reject God’s authority. Ultimately, eugenicists formed the basis for their science on Darwinism, which teaches that human life has no intrinsic value and that mankind is actually a random accident. I think it’s important to understand the environment in which eugenics formed because, frankly, we could learn a lot from it.” He paused while he jammed as much barbecue rib into his mouth as possible and chewed. Finally, he continued, “As you probably already know, the mid to late 19th century was a time when the foundations of society were being questioned. Up until that point, Christianity was very dominant in Europe and America. However, a number of philosophers, writers, scholars, and ethicists began to challenge Christianity. For example, the philosopher Nietzsche wrote tomes such as Beyond Good and Evil and The Gay Science, and Charles Darwin wrote Origin of the Species and The Descent of Man. Nietzsche was the philosopher who notoriously declared God to be dead and argued that people should focus on their freedom in the existing world and forget about the concept of heaven. He also suggests that there is no universal morality applicable to mankind, and that any concept of guilt or conscience is the result of Christianity turning an evil eye toward our natural inclinations. He also claimed that Christianity was for weak and unhealthy people. 116

The Shadowed Mind “Similarly, Darwin theorized that human beings are the result of millions of years worth of changes in life, from pond scum to man. In his second book, The Descent of Man, he suggested that certain races of people were more evolved than others, thereby contributing to diminishing the value of certain people groups even further. “So we have an environment where traditional morality was turned upside-down, naturalism was gaining widespread popularity, progressive thinking was fashionable and science believed in itself to explain how mankind came to exist without the need for God. It was Darwin’s cousin, Francis Galton, who first conceptualized the idea that the human race should be proactively improved — coining the term eugenics. In an environment that had rejected God and morality, his ideas quickly became popular among scholars.” “Therefore, if human beings have no intrinsic value — certainly no more than any other type of animal — it seemed perfectly logical to get rid of the undesirable elements holding the human race back from continuing to evolve. Am I right?” Dinah summarized. “I’m afraid you are,” said Andy, taking a long drink from his glass. “And so these undesirable elements of society were further classified into race, income, the presence of illness or disability, and so on. The belief that humans were just a result of evolution led to the conviction that white people were more evolved than black people, for example. It was during this time, in the 1920s, that evolutionists believed that the Australian Aborigines were the missing link, so to speak, between our ape ancestors and modern man. Biologists from England and Germany began to hunt them, as you would an animal, as research specimens. They were even given specific instructions about how to skin them and preserve their skulls for display in museums around the world. Aboriginal graves were robbed and desecrated so that their remains might be studied. “That’s awful,” said Dinah, shaking her head. “How could they justify treating people like that?” “Well, because they didn’t think of them as people. And remember, it doesn’t matter if you are a person — humans have no more worth than animals anyway. It doesn’t get any better in this country. Perhaps you’ve heard of Ota Benga, an African man bought as a slave, brought to this country and displayed in a cage as a half-man, half-ape at the 117

A Dinah Harris Mystery Bronx zoo. It was evolutionary thinking, the idea that Africans and Aborigines were less evolved than the white man that led to such horrific abuse and injustice. It is simply an example of the strong exploiting the weak.” Dinah was mute with indignation. It seemed like such outrage would happen in other places that were far less civilized than the United States. Yet the bloody history of this great nation suggested otherwise. “The truth is that humans all came from one origin. We are all descended from one man and one woman: Adam and Eve. Our Creator God placed phenomenal variability in our genes; the sheer amount of information in human DNA is mind-boggling. Racism is often manifested based on the shade of a person’s skin. Skin shade is determined by the amount of melanin our body produces, and that is dependent upon our genetic makeup. We know that skin shade is determined by at least 7 genes and possibly up to 40 genes. And you should keep in mind that the isolation of people groups on certain continents for many generations has led to certain physical characteristics associated with certain people groups we now see — such as dark-skinned people living in Africa and light-skinned people living in Norway. People groups whose skin produces more melanin tend to fare better in hot climates, while people groups who skin produces less melanin thrive in cooler climates. That’s the explanation for all the differences we see between us, not because some are more evolved than others. Andy shrugged and pointed a rib at her to emphasize his point. “I think it’s also important to mention that evolution also relies on genetic mutations happening over a time period of millions of years as a dominant mechanism. Mutations are permanent changes in the DNA, and all observed mutations involve the loss of information from DNA. This is different from the loss or gain of structure and/ or function. Sometimes losing DNA information ends up being beneficial, but it doesn’t change the fact that that information is lost. For evolution to work, there needs to be a gain in new information within the DNA that results in a new structure or function. For example, a single-celled amoeba would need to acquire the DNA code for new structures and new functions in order for it to evolve into a more complex organism. Furthermore, this would need to happen billions 118

The Shadowed Mind of times for a complex human being to have evolved. The truth is that when we observe genetic mutations happening, we often see devastating results, not beneficial ones.” Andy devoured a rib with astonishing speed, then said, “You know, things like racism and social injustice happened before Darwin came along. But evolution really is a belief system established on inequality, racism, and exploitation of the vulnerable. You’ll see as you learn about eugenics that it really was the helpless who suffered most under its regime — defenseless babies who weren’t born perfect, the disabled, the elderly, and the diseased, the homeless, and those living in poverty.” Dinah sipped her root beer and thought for a moment in silence. “Did you know that we found a modern-day eugenics society operating here in the city?” she said. “They operate under a philosophy that says that intelligence is the greatest human ideal.” “I didn’t know that,” admitted Andy, “but it doesn’t surprise me. By extension, those who are not considered to be intelligent shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce. Just as there are plenty of social Darwinists propagating their beliefs, too.” “What’s social Darwinism?” Dinah asked curiously. “Essentially, it’s a belief that derives from evolution’s survival of the fittest, which is applied to the problems faced by society,” explained Andy. “It’s a particularly dangerous way to think because it removes God totally from the equation. How do you address problems such as homelessness, drug addiction, declining morality, and other issues from a social Darwinist point of view? In short, you would have to eliminate those elements of society you found undesirable, for according to Darwinism the strong must always dominate the weak. Christianity believes the opposite — that we are to treat all human beings with kindness, compassion, and empathy, just as Christ did. Remember the Samaritan woman who approached Jesus at the well? The Jewish leaders wouldn’t have anything to do with her because she was a Samaritan. Not only that, she was a woman, and she was considered immoral because she’d had four husbands. She was on the lowest rung of the social ladder, yet Jesus sought her out, spoke to her, and forgave her sins. Social problems are caused by sin, of which everybody is redeemable. Social Darwinism is basically the complete opposite to Christianity. Eugenics is just the natural progression of the evolutionary thought 119

A Dinah Harris Mystery process. If we are to apply the principles of evolution to society, the only accurate interpretation ends in eugenics.” “Do you think that we as a society would ever accept that way of thinking again?” Dinah asked, pushing her plate away and leaning back in her chair. “I think it’s already happening. We have no more regard for human life today than then. We legislate for abortion and euthanasia under the guise that it’s the kind thing to do. Instead of getting rid of so-called defective individuals after birth, we now abort them prior to birth. We watch millions of people starving to death in Africa on CNN and then put it out of our minds as if it were just a movie.” Andy sighed and rubbed his forehead. “There will never be an answer, because the world is rotten through sin. There is only one solution: His name is Jesus.” There was silence for several moments as each contemplated the discussion. Then Dinah said, “During my research, I’ve noticed that alcoholics are frequently mentioned as being one of these undesirables.” She struggled to articulate how she felt. “I am trying to come to terms with the fact that I might have been sterilized or even killed under the eugenics program. I suppose . . . it makes me realize how low I feel, knowing I have this weakness. It brings back all the reasons that I wanted to commit suicide.” She’d said it, the darkest thoughts that existed deep inside her. She saw Andy and Sandra exchange worried glances, but she couldn’t meet their gaze. “Do you think about suicide as an option?” asked Sandra carefully. Dinah saw what they were thinking. “No! No, I don’t, I swear. It just brings back the terrible feelings that I had at the time. I just see the word ‘subhuman’ or ‘undesirable,’ and realize that I am both of those things.” “Listen,” said Andy, learning forward. “We are all undesirable, in God’s eyes. We have all been ravaged and ruined by sin. Yet He loves us all equally, enough to send His Son as a sacrifice in our place. And you have accepted this free gift of grace, Dinah. You are now a precious child of His, worthy of receiving His riches. He no longer sees the person you feel you are, but a child free of sin or blemish.” Dinah nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She knew this, but it was so difficult to bring her heart into line, her treacherous heart who 120

The Shadowed Mind would have her believe she was not worthy of life, who still identified herself as a useless drunk, who might have served as her own executioner. It was difficult to extricate herself from her past, which clung to her with deep claws and bloody maw, reminding her of failures and weaknesses. It was time to shelve the past, though it could never be entirely forgotten, and look to the future — a relationship with the living Christ, for that is where her redemption lay. ****

The shrill ring of Dinah’s cell phone interrupted the conclusion of lunch. She jumped, transporting suddenly from the world of barbecued ribs back to the investigation. She answered, knowing that it would be Detective Cage. “We’ve got another body,” the big detective said tersely. “Okay,” said Dinah, her heart sinking. “Where shall I meet you?” Cage gave her directions to an industrial section of the city, Hyattsville, and hung up. Dinah didn’t know him that well, but she could tell he was getting frustrated with the mounting body toll and the lack of useable clues. She pulled up at the perimeter of the taped-off crime scene 30 minutes later and waited for Detective Cage to wave her through. Once inside, she studied the facade of the catering business, incongruous to the surrounding industrial and commercial buildings. “The body was found in the alley,” Detective Cage said, showing her the small thoroughfare that ran down the side of the building. In spite of the early afternoon heat, he wore a crisp, French-cuffed shirt and tie, and didn’t look to be suffering from the effects of the warmth at all. The body of the woman still, in fact, lay there, crumpled carelessly as though the killer had left her where she fell. She was a slight woman, in her mid to late thirties, and she bore a look of surprise on her face. Save for the aberrant angle of her neck, there were no indications of violence elsewhere on her body. “How long has she been here?” Dinah asked. “Medical examiner’s office thinks roughly since the early hours of this morning. She was found by the staff of the catering business this 121

A Dinah Harris Mystery morning, and it took a few hours for the news to filter through to me,” explained Cage. “Who is she?” “Birth certificate says she is Ashleigh Colter. There was a backpack next to her with some clothes, toiletries, and a purse. We found a bus ticket stub from Florida, which is where she may have hailed from.” Dinah squatted next to the body and carefully looked her over, not touching her. The woman looked careworn and tired, with a prematurely lined face. Her clothes were threadbare and cheap and her hard life was etched on her face. How many men have beat on you and told you lies? wondered Dinah. How many times have you accepted it because you desperately craved their attention? “Why do you suppose she was brought here?” Dinah asked. Cage glanced around. “If she was killed in the middle of the night, this is one of the quietest places to do it. There would have been nobody around. If you mean more specifically why next to this catering building, I don’t know.” A uniformed cop approached with a middle-aged man and said, “Excuse me, Detective. This man says he may have some useful information for you.” Detective Cage turned to look at the man. “Yes, sir?” The man gestured at the catering company building. He was a short, powerfully built man in his forties, with thinning silver hair and hooded dark eyes. “I’m Lorenzo, I own the business there,” he said. “We have a surveillance camera mounted on the front. We put it there to discourage burglars.” Cage exchanged a look with Dinah. “That’s excellent news. Can we see the footage?” “Come into the back,” invited Lorenzo. Dinah and Cage followed him, allowing the crime scene techs to finish combing the scene before the medical examiner’s office took the body to the morgue for autopsy. In a small office-cum-lunchroom, Lorenzo rewound last night’s tape and then pushed play for them. Detective Cage had been right: the area was deserted and still after the work day was finished and they fast-forwarded through several hours of nothing before they got what they wanted. 122

The Shadowed Mind At about midnight, a white van parked directly outside the building. The camera wasn’t of the highest quality, but they could still make out the words on the side of the van: Drug Response Team. Then the driver of the van got out and they all held their breath, wondering if they could see him. They were disappointed. The camera angle meant that the top of the van and the man were cut off. All they could see of the individual was from the chest down. Then Ashleigh Colter appeared from the other side of the van. She was much shorter than the man and so most of her face was visible. She hugged her backpack to her chest and seemed to be talking happily with the man. The man opened the back of the van and seemed to be digging around in there for something while Ashleigh Colter waited. Finally, he closed the van door and pointed toward the alley. Ashleigh seemed to be wary. She stopped and spoke to the man with a frown on her face. He must have reassured her, for she then moved on out of the picture. Dinah and Cage waited with bated breath to see what would happen next. About ten minutes later the man reappeared but Ashleigh Colter didn’t. He quickly got behind the wheel of the van and drove away. Although they both strained their eyes to see a license plate, the camera image was too grainy to give up anything of use. The rest of the tape showed nothing of use. Cage thanked Lorenzo and took the tape into custody as evidence. As he put it into a plastic evidence bag and sealed it, he said, “Well, I think we’ve finally seen our killer.” “Yeah,” agreed Dinah. “Too bad we couldn’t see his face.” “Do you know what sort of van that is?” Cage asked. Lorenzo nodded. “That’s a Ford Econovan for sure.” Cage nodded. “I think so, too.” Dinah suddenly spotted a crime scene technician waving them over. Dinah and Cage hurried back to the body. “We found this, shoved right down inside the victim’s jeans,” the young woman said, handing them a card. Cage carefully took the card in one gloved hand. Like the cards found on Lakeisha Tennant and Benjamin Steffan, this card was of the 123

A Dinah Harris Mystery plain, generic sympathy variety with a picture of a bird in flight on the front. Inside, a typed message said: Science has proven that just as in nature the struggle for existence is the moving principle of evolution and perfection, in that the weak are worn away and must make room for the strong, so also in world history the destruction of weaker nations through the stronger is a postulate of progress. Whoever it may be, he must stride over the corpses of the vanquished, that is natural law. Detective Cage and Dinah glanced at each other. “Wow,” said Cage, shaking his head. “This is one mean dude.”

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ith her father safely tucked into bed for the night, Ella Barnett decided to place a phone call she’d been dreading. Her brother Micah lived in Portland, too far away to give her much day-to-day help. He felt much the same about his father as Ella and sent financial help regularly, although he didn’t have to handle the daily care. “Hey, sis,” he said cheerfully, when he picked up the phone. “How’s things?” “Uh. . . .” Ella was dismayed to find that she was already on the verge of tears. She swallowed hard and tried to repress her emotions. “Well, we’re struggling through.” There was silence on the other end of the phone. “What’s wrong?” Micah asked, concern diffusing his voice. 126

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“I just don’t know if I can do this for much longer,” said Ella, in a sudden rush of words. “I’m so tired. Dad is becoming very difficult.” “Tell me what’s happened,” suggested Micah. Ella told him about their father’s increasing disorientation and confusion, and his growing hostility toward her. She finished by relating the incident in which John Barnett had thrown his shoes at her, convinced that she was an intruder. “Wow,” said Micah, when she had finished. “I didn’t realize things had gotten so bad. I’m sorry I’m not there to give you a hand.” Ella sighed. “It’s okay. I wanted to talk to you about looking into a nursing home for him.” Again there was silence. “Didn’t we talk about this?” Micah said, at length. “We decided we didn’t really want to do that. We wanted to look after him, just as he did for us.” “Yes, I know we agreed on that,” admitted Ella. “But I guess I didn’t realize how bad it would get . . . and it’s only going to get worse.” She wished she could be more assertive, and just tell Micah what she wanted to do. Instead, she knew she would allow him to talk her around, and nothing would change. “I just don’t know if I want a stranger looking after Dad,” argued Micah. “They wouldn’t do as good a job as you do.” “Yeah, but you don’t know how hard it is, day after day,” said Ella, on the verge of tears again. “I’m exhausted, Micah.” “Okay, I hear you.” There was silence as her older brother tried to decide what to do. “What about a part-time nurse to help me care for Dad?” suggested Ella, when the quiet had dragged on for too long. “That’s not a bad idea,” said Micah enthusiastically. “Then Dad could stay at home and you could get a break.” “I need you to organize that for me,” said Ella, surprising herself by her firm tone. “I have my hands full, and I frankly don’t have the energy.” Surprisingly, Micah didn’t argue. “Okay, sis, leave it up to me,” he said. There was a lengthy pause, then he asked, “How much time do you think Dad has left?” 127

A Dinah Harris Mystery “It’s hard to say,” she said. “He could have as much as five years, or as little as one year. I suppose it depends on how badly he goes downhill.” “Okay. I’m trying to get some time off work to visit you guys,” said Micah. “I’ll try to make it as soon as possible.” Ella suddenly thought of something she wanted to ask her brother. “Do you know anyone Dad might have known named Peter or Henry?” “Peter or Henry? Nothing comes to mind immediately. Why?” “It would have been from a long time ago,” explained Ella. “He seems to have regressed back to a time just after he and Mom got married, before you or I were born.” “I’m still stumped, Sis. Is it a problem?” “I guess not,” said Ella tiredly. “It’s just that he gets really fixated on those names to the point of hysteria. He’s even harassed people at the grocery store. It’s like he’s trying to find two people called Peter and Henry.” “Who are you talking to?” Her father’s querulous voice startled Ella and almost sent her rocketing off her chair. “Is that Peter? Is it Henry?” “Bye, Micah,” Ella said hurriedly, then hung up. “Hi, Dad. I was talking to Micah, my brother, your son.” The old man, clad in his pajamas, frowned. “My son? I don’t have a son. Why would you lie about that? Were you talking to Peter or Henry?” “No, it wasn’t Peter or Henry,” said Ella with a sigh. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.” “I want to talk to them, if you find them,” insisted her father. “I must talk to them. I need to apologize.” At least while he was talking, he allowed Ella to lead him back toward his bedroom. “Apologize for what?” she asked curiously. He looked at her sideways as they entered his room. “I’m not telling you!” he scoffed. “Just tell me when you find them, okay?” “Sure thing,” she said, patting the bed. “Time for sleep now.” This time, she waited by his bed until his eyes started to close. She thought of the times he’d sat beside her bed after she’d had a nightmare or had been convinced there were monsters in the closet. He’d stroked 128

The Shadowed Mind her hair and sung softly to her, comforting her with his presence. As a child, she’d firmly believed that nothing could go wrong if her father was nearby. She had believed he could fix anything. In truth, he could almost fix anything — her bike, the dishwasher, a scraped knee, her hurt at the betrayal of a school friend. Yet he was powerless to fix the decline in his own mind, watching from an unfamiliar place as his world shrunk around him to include only the prison bars through which he watched strangers doing things he could no longer master. ****

Dr. Nelson Sharp didn’t appear to mind Detective Cage and Dinah appearing at his office door uninvited the following morning. Neither Cage nor Dinah had gotten much sleep — yet Cage showed no ill effects while Dinah felt like she’d scratched steel wool over her eyes and her head felt full of sand. Her pale blue blouse was creased despite a haphazard attempt to iron it, while Cage’s yellow shirt was ironed with starched precision. Dinah resolved to ask him how he did it. “Hello, Detective,” said Dr. Sharp, letting them into his office. He wore a different pair of glasses today — they were horn-rimmed, which would have looked ridiculous on anyone else. Instead, the professor simply looked casually cool. “What can I do for you?” “Sorry to drop by unannounced,” said Cage, again trying to fit his large frame into the trendy chair. “We have another murder that seems to be linked to our eugenics discussions, and we’re desperate to learn all we can.” “No problem,” the university professor said. “As I said, it’s summer, so my hours are pretty flexible.” Cage pulled out his notebook and gave Dr. Sharp the latest quote, found on the body of Ashleigh Colter. Dr Sharp read it with a wrinkled forehead. “It sounds vaguely familiar. Could you bear with me while I look it up?” Cage and Dinah sat uncomfortably while Dr. Sharp consulted his laptop, then rifled through several textbooks in his bookcase. Dinah hated sitting still and waiting. She shifted left and right, chewing on her fingernails and noting that Cage’s shoes were spit-polished to a high sheen. The big man sat stiffly but calmly and still, the only 129

A Dinah Harris Mystery indication he was even awake given away by his eyes, which scanned the room over and over. Finally, Dr. Sharp said, “Okay, I’ve got it.” “What does it mean?” Cage asked curiously. “It’s a quote from a 19th-century German ethnologist named Hellwald,” explained Dr. Sharp. “It comes from a book he wrote called The History of Culture in Its Natural Evolution published in 1875. I haven’t read his book, but my hasty research would seem to indicate that the theme of the book revolves around the development of human society replacing ethical considerations.” Dr. Sharp consulted his laptop. “Let’s see.” His eyes moved quickly, absorbing information. “Hellwald insists that science has banished morality, since in the struggle for existence the ends justify the means. Additionally, he construes war as a necessary part of the Darwinian struggle. He considers war to be an important factor in cultural progress, and he uses the Spanish conquest of the Americas as an example. He glosses over the atrocities and bloodshed of the conquest and describes it as an inexpressible blessing to humanity.” He looked up at Cage and Dinah who stared back at him. “That seems like a pretty radical view,” said Dinah finally. “He was one of the more drastic social thinkers,” agreed Dr. Sharp. “Yet it would appear that his views were held in high esteem by his peers. Furthermore, his views weren’t that different from most of the social Darwinist eugenicists of the day.” “Is it any wonder that the Nazis could do what they did, if this is the type of thinking going on in Germany,” commented Dinah. “It was certainly the events of the Holocaust that brought about an end to the popularization of eugenics,” said Dr. Sharp. “Once the world saw the horror that could be wrought in the name of eugenics and racial hygiene, it quickly fell out of favor. Of course, Germany was relatively unique. Some have said the reason for World War I was the result of social Darwinism. There was a professor at Stanford University named Vernon Kellogg who had a conversation with a German army officer who’d been a biology teacher before the war. Kellogg said afterward that the creed of a natural selection based on violent and fatal competitive struggle is the gospel of German intellectuals. It affected Kellogg to the point of renouncing pacifism and supporting the war 130

The Shadowed Mind against them. So you can see how entrenched the concept of militant social Darwinism was within the German culture.” “And this was during the First World War?” Dinah asked. “Right. So there was plenty of time for the idea to fester, particularly after the humiliation of their defeat,” agreed Dr. Sharp. “Of course there were an equal number of pacifist social Darwinists who objected to warfare. But when you study their writings, it emerges that opposition to warfare came because they believed the wrong people were being killed as a result. They believed war killed the healthy and strong, rather than the weak and sickly. In short, they thought war hindered evolutionary progress. “However, even before the First World War, most intellectuals in Europe and many here in America considered war to be biologically determined, and therefore that no moral considerations were to be applied. How can you argue against war if it is simply a product of natural laws?” “As opposed to what? The ability of humans to wreck everything they touch?” Dinah asked caustically. Dr. Sharp laughed. “That’s one way of putting it . . . or you could say, as opposed to free choice. In any event, this militant Darwinism continued apace during the late 19th century. Intellectuals such as Fredriche Rolle stated that the right of the stronger was not subject to morality; while Gustav Jaeger believed that the war of annihilation is natural law without which the organic world could not continue to exist. Then along came your fellow, Hellwald, who thought along the same lines and probably had a more radical approach than his contemporaries, but was popular nonetheless.” Dinah digested this information. What did a warmongering Darwinist from the 19th century have in common with a present-day serial killer? Again the interview was cut short by the shrill ring of Cage’s cell phone. This time it was the crime scene lab, which had made some discoveries from the alley where Ashleigh Colter had been found. Dr. Sharp good-naturedly agreed to continue the interview at a later stage. The two investigators drove straight to the crime lab. ****

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A Dinah Harris Mystery Zach, the crime scene lab technician, sported a bright-green stripe in his otherwise platinum mohawk, and had accessorized with a green eyebrow ring and nose stud. He called a greeting out to them from his brilliantly lit workstation and waved them over. “Hey Dinah, Detective,” he said, shaking their respective hands. “How’s things?” “We’re hoping you’ll make our day a little brighter,” said Dinah. “All I’ve been thinking about for the past few days is inferior humans, war, and the plan to eradicate the weak and sick.” “Oh, yeah? Just another day at the office?” Zach chuckled. “In any case, I think I can make your day somewhat brighter.” “What have you got?” Cage asked. “The good news is that we got something from the crime scene, as opposed to your other crime scenes where we got zilch,” explained Zach. “The bad news is that it’s still not much.” “At this point we’ll take what we can get,” said Cage. “Okay. We found no fingerprints or DNA other than from the victim,” began Zach. “And we had to sort through all the rubbish that accumulates on the street. So please take this information with a grain of salt — what we found doesn’t belong there, but there could also be another innocent explanation. Okay?” “We get it,” said Cage, displaying a tiny trace of impatience. “Do you have a point?” Zach raised his eyebrows. “Man, I think you’ve been hanging out with Dinah for too long. You’re starting to pick up her prickly vibes, know what I mean?” Cage just stared at him, his face impassive while Dinah suppressed a smile. Eventually, even Zach wilted under the big man’s gaze. “Okay, so what we found were some chips,” he said. “Polyurethane chips, to be precise.” “How big are we talking?” “Tiny, about the size of a pinhead,” said Zach. “Almost like flakes, I guess.” “And what is the significance of this?” “Polyurethane is a plastic with a wide variety of uses,” explained Zach. “It’s used in industry all the time, from foam to insulation to automotive suspension to hard plastic parts. It’s pretty common. It’s hard and durable, yet flexible. Its presence in the street isn’t really that 132

The Shadowed Mind unusual. It could’ve been transported there by a laborer or a truck or any number of ways. But it’s where we found it that raises the most questions.” He beckoned them to his computer, where he’d constructed a 3-D model of the area. A 3-D version of Ashleigh Colter’s body lay where it had been found, and the van remained parked at the curb. “If there is a reasonably innocent explanation, you’d expect to find these flakes of polyurethane up and down the street or in the alley in a random pattern. You certainly might find a concentration of them here or there for whatever reason, but in our case you find them in two specific places.” Zach demonstrated on his model. “One set you find on the street directly at the back of the van, the other set virtually underneath the body. There were no chips found anywhere else.” “That is unusual,” admitted Dinah. “What’s your theory?” “Polyurethane is pretty dense,” said Zach. “It’s not prone to flying along on the wind, for example. So it would require some level of force to dislodge it. After studying the video surveillance footage, we see that the man driving the van hangs around the back of the van for a fair period of time, seemingly searching for something. He seems to get quite agitated. Then, presumably he takes Colter into the alley and kills her there. So my theory is that he is the transporter of polyurethane chips, which became dislodged once when he was vigorously searching through the van, and once when he killed Colter. That would explain the absence of the chips anywhere else in the area.” “So by your theory, we would also find chips in the van itself?” mused Dinah. “I would tend to think so,” agreed Zach. “I know it’s not much, but it could be useful, particularly if you managed to find the van.” “Did you get any distinguishing marks from the man on the video?” Cage asked. “No, all we have is a headless body that’s fully clothed,” said Zach. “There’s not much I can do with it. I’m not on CSI: Miami, you know. I can’t magically change the camera angle or re-pixellate the footage or whatever it is they do.” Dinah laughed as they bade Zach farewell and walked out onto the steps of the lab into the warm summer sunshine. Dinah turned her face upward so that a few rays fell on her skin. 133

A Dinah Harris Mystery “So what do you make of this so far?” Cage asked. “What would a profiler say?” Dinah considered the question in silence for several minutes. Finally, she said, “We’re looking for a male, acting alone, aged in his mid-thirties to mid-forties. He’s extremely organized and intelligent, and his crimes are well-planned, cool, and methodical. He is able to gain the trust of his victims in a variety of ways — his first victim thought he was a harmless do-gooder, his second victim thought he was a respectable journalist, and his third victim thought he was a charity volunteer. He is probably gainfully employed and might even be in a reasonably senior job, though his resume will probably show a long list of jobs from which is was fired or resigned. He could be married, although this will likely be a dysfunctional relationship. By leaving the messages behind on the bodies, he shows that he has a specific agenda and that he wants this message to be broadcast. He is atypical in that his victims cover both sexes, varying ages, and ethnicities. I think that’ll become more obvious once we work out what is behind his motive.” “What do you think his motive is?” Cage asked, as they climbed back into the car. “Judging from all we’ve learned in the past few days, he seems to be bent on making a statement about what he thinks of inferior people,” said Dinah. “His first victim was a street kid and drug addict, his second had a mental illness, and his third was homeless. It would appear to me that he is getting rid of people he considers to be worthless.” “Cleaning up, so to speak,” said Cage, carefully easing his way through the traffic. “So who is next on his list?” Dinah voiced the disquiet she’d been feeling since the case began. “I suppose I could be next on the list. I’m one of those worthless alcoholics they keep talking about.” Cage glanced at her and gave her an uncharacteristic smile. “Or maybe I’ll be next. I’m one of those half-evolved apes.” Dinah smiled back, and they shared a moment in which despite the attitudes around them that sought to displace or discredit them, they stood together in silent solidarity. ****

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The Shadowed Mind Early afternoon fell upon them as Cage parked in the near-empty lot outside the headquarters of the Drug Response Team. Black clouds banked up in the sky, signaling an imminent thunderstorm. The building was small and ancient, as was often the case for non-profit organizations which eked out enough funds to cover their activities but left precious little spare to cover the cosmetic. A secretary on her way out of the building paused long enough to show them down a long corridor featuring cracked and peeling paint to the office of the vice-president, Celia Baylor. She welcomed them into the tiny space and offered them a pair of mismatched chairs on which to sit. Her desk was piled with stacks of paper, files, and books. Celia Baylor was a woman in her early fifties with long, gray-streaked hair piled crazily on top of her head, tortoise shell-framed glasses, and bright, blood-red lipstick. “Hi, sorry about the mess,” she said, smiling at them. “I live in a state of perpetual chaos.” Dinah wondered what the mess was doing to Cage’s head and fought back a smile. He glanced around, clearly a little unsettled, before trying to concentrate on the task at hand. “No problem, Ms. Baylor,” he said, folding his hands tightly in his lap. “We’re here to ask about a van of yours seen near a crime last night.” Celia Baylor frowned. “Oh, dear! I haven’t heard about that and it certainly hasn’t appeared in our log books. Whereabouts did this happen?” “In Hyattsville,” said Cage. Celia Baylor’s frown deepened. “We didn’t have any vans in that area last night.” She tapped away at her computer and pulled up a log book. “We had three vans out — one at Capitol Hill, one in Ford DuPont Park, and one at Saint Elizabeths. No van near the Hyattsville area at all.” Cage matched her frown. “Are you sure?” “Positive,” said Baylor. “Our van crews have to log everything and the vans have a GPS tracking device in them, so that we know where they are. They call in every four hours, so we know they’re okay. They work in some pretty rough and dangerous areas.” “Could someone have stolen one of your vans?” Dinah asked. Celia Baylor smiled. “I don’t think so. We only have three, and they were all out serving last night.” 135

A Dinah Harris Mystery Cage and Dinah glanced at each other. “Do you have any ex-staff who might use the name of your charity for their own purposes?” Baylor tapped away at her computer again. “No one comes to mind immediately,” she said. “You should probably know that most of our van crews are volunteers, rather than paid staff. We give them free training but that’s about it. They come and go, and there’s not much we can do about it.” “So were there any volunteers that struck you as being a bit odd?” asked Cage. “Any who didn’t make it through basic training, for example?” Baylor drummed her fingers on her desk while she pulled up the training records. “Let’s see,” she mused. “Oh, here’s one. His name was Leonard Marks. He made it through training and went out on several van crews. Bear with me while I reacquaint myself with his file.” There was silence while she read the associated report. Cage sat still, his hands still clenched in his lap. Dinah tapped her leg, bit her fingernails, crossed and re-crossed her legs, readjusted her ponytail, and was beginning to think of pacing the room, when Baylor said, “Oh, I remember Leonard. He had some very derogatory views on the people we were trying to help. We don’t discriminate against anyone who asks for our help, but apparently Leonard began refusing to give assistance to certain people.” Cage and Dinah exchanged a glance. “What sort of certain people?” “There didn’t seem to be a pattern, if that’s what you mean,” replied Celia. “The crews reported him saying some abusive things at one time, and then refusing to give blankets or sandwiches at another time. He also apparently made snide remarks that were clearly inappropriate to the other crew members. So we asked him not to come back. We haven’t seen him since.” “Do you have any contact details for Leonard?” Cage asked. “I can give you what we have, but they must be at least a year old by now,” said Celia, as the printer hummed to life. “I know how these things work; you can’t give me the particulars of the crime, but can you tell me if our organization is being brought into disrepute?” “It was only a one-off thing as far as we can tell,” said Cage. “So there won’t be any damage to your organization.” He took Leonard Marks’ contact details from her. “Thank you for your time.” 136

The Shadowed Mind Outside, Cage looked visibly relieved to leave behind the chaos of Celia Baylor’s office. Of the details he now held in his hand, he said, “Does it sound like this Leonard fellow could be a suspect?” “It does seems strange to join an organization involved in helping the homeless and drug addicted, only to refuse assistance to them, verbally abuse them, and make catty comments to them. He definitely merits a visit,” said Dinah. “Then let’s roll.” Cage jingled his keys. “By the way,” Dinah said, as she climbed into the unmarked police vehicle. “How did you like Celia Baylor’s office? Did you feel right at home?” Cage glanced at her. “Very funny, Dinah. I suppose you’ve realized I like organization and order.” Dinah laughed. “Understatement of the century, Detective.” He joined her laughter as they drove away. She took his good-humor as an opportunity to press him. “How did your last partner deal with your obsessive behavior?” The smile slid from his face and he stared rigidly ahead. “Just fine.” “Come on, Detective,” teased Dinah. “You’re trying to tell me that your partner didn’t give you a hard time. . . .” “Drop it, Harris,” snapped Cage. The mood suddenly shifted. Dinah did exactly what the man suggested and shut her mouth.

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must admit, I’m curious as to your interest in our little place,” said Paige Wheeler, manager of the Forest Glen Palliative Care Home. She was attractive, with honey-blonde hair and a lean, athletic figure. The killer enjoyed being taken on this tour by her. “I really just want to volunteer in something that I’m passionate about,” he told her. “My sister died of breast cancer at a young age, and I watched her die. I want to help other patients in any way I can, because I understand what they’re going through.” A big lie, but Paige Wheeler bought it. Most people did; he was an accomplished liar. It was a beautiful place for people suffering the end stages of terminal illness. There were also patients who suffered from AIDS, Lou Gehrig’s disease, and Parkinson’s disease in addition to cancer. The patient’s 138

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ages ranged from mid-twenties to mid-sixties, and all lived there because their physical needs were too great for their own family members to address. The home offered round-the-clock nursing care, administration of drug therapies, and provision of comforts and distractions to ease the suffering of the residents. The patients’ families paid a handsome sum of money for these services. So far, the killer had seen a large garden in which patients were encouraged to spend time, if they were able; a pool in which water aerobics and physiotherapy were regularly conducted; an art room fully stocked with paints, brushes, and canvasses; a library; a small movie theater; and a common room designed to look like a cozy family living room, with games, a fireplace, and magazines. Each resident had his or her own small room, roughly the size of a postage stamp but which still provided a sense of privacy despite the hospital feel. Visiting hours were generous, and the killer had seen numerous families visiting with their loved ones either in the common room or in their bedrooms. His goal was to find someone who didn’t have family visit regularly, and he had positioned himself so that it wouldn’t be odd to ask Paige Wheeler exactly that. “What is it you’d like to do here?” she asked, giving him a perfect opening. “I guess I’d like to visit with patients who are feeling lonely,” he said earnestly. “People who don’t have family visit regularly and would like some company.” “What a lovely gesture,” Paige Wheeler said enthusiastically. “We do have some patients who meet those criteria, unfortunately. I get the feeling their families send them here to be someone else’s problem.” “That’s very sad,” commented the killer, as though he really cared. “They’re very much the ones I’d like to help. When my sister was sick, I found she enjoyed being read to, playing games, and talking. It made her feel better, even if just for a short time.” “I totally agree with you,” enthused Wheeler. “Being lonely doesn’t help one’s prognosis, I’m afraid.” She suddenly turned serious. “Now, 139

A Dinah Harris Mystery before we can officially accept you as a volunteer, we must do a police check. I’m sure you would appreciate our desire to protect our residents and staff alike.” “Of course,” the killer said cheerfully. He had no police record — yet. “I understand.” “Great. Well, would you like to meet some of our residents whom you might consider spending time with?” “That’d be awesome!” The killer ground his teeth. How did people manage to be perky and cheerful all day? He was thoroughly sick of it after just an hour. He met four potential candidates: two cancer patients, one AIDS patient, and one with Huntington’s disease. He chose the young man with Huntington’s disease, mostly because the other three were females and his last victim had been female. The young man’s name was Billy Atwood, and he was 39 years old. He had been diagnosed three years earlier, and he was now in a motorized wheelchair. He was still able to communicate, although his speech was slow and slightly garbled. His favorite activities were watching movies and listening to audio books. The killer took him to the library and there he asked about Billy Atwood’s life. The conversation was slow, but understandable. Billy told him he worked with a speech pathologist every day while he could still do so. Billy had been a pretty good baseball player in his youth, and had made it into the minor leagues before sustaining a severe shoulder injury that ended his dreams of a professional career. Then he had become a police officer, doing some time in the canine unit. He’d been accepted into the prestigious SWAT team training program when he’d been diagnosed. He’d never married nor had children. His elderly parents didn’t have the strength or energy themselves to take care of him, but they did have money, so this is how he’d ended up at Forest Glen. He’d lived alone with a regular caregiver coming by until he could no longer be independent. “Sorry if this sounds insensitive,” the killer said, “but it must be incredibly frustrating to go from leading a full and normal life to being physically confined.” 140

The Shadowed Mind “You have no idea,” said Billy. “I was very angry in the early days. I couldn’t believe that it was happening to me. I looked for all sorts of weird alternative cures. But now, I’ve learned to accept it.” They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, and then Billy said, “You know what the worst thing is? I hate it when people assume because my body is broken that my mind is broken, too. So they speak to me like I’m an idiot or they yell at me because they think I can’t hear them.” The killer made sympathetic noises. After their discussion, he promised to be back within the next couple of days. As he walked back through the home, he couldn’t believe his luck. The security was low, Billy’s family was unlikely to visit, and he virtually had easy access to him any time he wanted. The killer struck up a whistle as he left the home. If there was any guilt or care for what he was going to do, he didn’t feel it. ****

Leonard Marks lived in a large apartment block in Langdon, northeast of the city. The block seemed to be filled with singles or couples with an occasional small child, and the look definitely leaned toward shabby chic. Leonard was tall, with longish, dark-brown hair, green eyes, and pale skin. He invited them into the apartment, which was sparsely and cheaply furnished. The entire living space was dominated by overflowing bookcases and excess books were stacked in piles all over the floor. “Like to read?” Dinah asked, picking her way through the room until she found a place to sit on a low-slung couch. “Obviously,” he replied sharply. “I’m doing my PhD. I need research materials.” “What are you doing your PhD on?” Cage asked, using his most neutral tone. “Transgenerational epigenetics,” said Leonard loftily. He didn’t bother to explain as Dinah and Cage stared at him uncomprehendingly. “What does that mean?” Dinah finally asked. “Epigenetics is the study of how environmental factors can influence the function of genes,” said Leonard. “Early studies seem to show that epigenetic changes are not permanent and can be manipulated by 141

A Dinah Harris Mystery circumstances from generation to generation. I want to know if we can reprogram certain types of genes to eliminate undesirable characteristics in future generations.” His words had a familiar ring. “I see. What would these undesirable characteristics be?” Cage asked. “Hereditary disease, for one thing,” replied Leonard. “But I would include susceptibility to drug addiction, poverty, substandard intelligence, and criminality.” “I have no doubt you’ll correct me if I’m wrong,” said Dinah dryly, “but I thought things such as poverty and criminality were shown to be caused by a lack of education and opportunity.” Leonard gave her a superior smile. “That’s what the government would have you believe. I don’t believe it for a second. I think such things are passed down from generation to generation, whether environmentally or genetically. That’s the purpose of my PhD.” Dinah had developed a headache in the short time they’d been in his apartment; possibly something to do with the fumes of egotism and arrogance wafting through the room. “So, anyway, I gather you’re not here to discuss my thesis,” Leonard said. “What can I help you with?” Cage was looking at him with an expression Dinah knew to be contempt. Mere mortals would usually falter under his steady gaze, but Leonard Marks did not. He stared back, seemingly issuing forth a challenge to the big detective. “We’re interested in your involvement with the Drug Response Team,” Cage said, at length. “We understand you completed training there and volunteered for a short while.” Leonard gave a derisive laugh. “Yeah, what a mistake that turned out to be,” he said. “It was thoroughly depressing.” “Seeing the suffering of the poor?” asked Dinah. “No, seeing the teeming unwashed masses acting as though we owe them something.” Leonard snorted. “They waited for us every night, expecting their free handouts. I tried to talk to some of them, to encourage them to find a better life for themselves. Typically, they weren’t interested.” Dinah could just imagine the type of encouragement Leonard Marks had offered. 142

The Shadowed Mind “So why did you volunteer, if not for altruistic reasons?” Cage asked. A muscle jumping in his jaw was the only indication he was edgy. “I put it straight in my thesis,” said Leonard. “They are living examples of why indiscriminate reproduction is ruining mankind’s progression.” A short time ago, this sentence would have made no sense to Dinah. Now, unfortunately, she understood completely. “So instead of suggesting ways in which we might help these unfortunate people, you advocate what — extermination?” Dinah demanded, feeling a flush rise in her cheeks. Leonard glared at her. “Lady, I’m not concerned with their individual plight. I’m a bigger picture kind of guy. I care about the progress of human evolution overall, which is far more important. Unless you’re an intellectual, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” Nobody had ever dared call Dinah “lady” to her face, let alone accused her of being uneducated, and anger immediately flowed red hot in her veins like molten lava. “First of all, don’t ever call me ‘lady’ again,” she snapped, leveling her most ferocious look at Marks. “Furthermore, I am educated and I would never support your brutish, inhumane code of ethics. Do you know how many undesirable characteristics I think you’re displaying right now? You’re nothing but a bully, and I can’t think of any other characteristic I’d like to see bred out of the human race more.” “Dinah . . .” Cage tried to rein her in. Others had tried before; none had succeeded. “And what about your poverty?” she continued. “I’ve seen better couches dumped on the side of the road! According to you, this means you’re substandard and you ought to be exterminated. Well, I can’t think of any reason why anyone would object to that!” “Dinah, this really isn’t helping,” Cage said sharply. Dinah glanced at him and sat back, taking a deep breath. Leonard watched her coolly. “Maybe I’ll add the inability to control emotion to my thesis,” he said spitefully. “I thought you came here seeking my help?” “Where were you last night, between eleven p.m. and four a.m.?” Cage asked, biting off his words. 143

A Dinah Harris Mystery “I was here, working on my thesis. Alone.” Leonard hadn’t taken his eyes off Dinah. “Ought I engage a lawyer?” Cage sighed. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Marks. We’ll see ourselves out.” They left Leonard Marks staring after them, his eyes not moving once as he watched them retreat. Outside, Cage said in a voice Dinah had never before heard, “You need to learn to control yourself.” Dinah swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. To me, it’s personal. You know what I mean.” “He got under my skin, too,” said Cage. “Just chill out.” They didn’t speak again for the entire journey home. ****

Ella Barnett woke with a start, all senses firing and hyper-alert. The sound of her heart racing echoed in her ears as she strained to hear what had awoken her. She stared into the darkness of her room, but could see no reason for the alarm response that had dumped adrenalin into her body. Finally, she heard a series of muffled thumps from the direction of her father’s room. With anxiety mounting, Ella threw back the covers and padded softly out of her room to investigate. John Barnett had pulled a suitcase down from the top shelf in his walk-in closet. He was frantically stuffing clothes into it without even looking at what he was packing. As she watched him, she was astonished to see tears rolling down his cheeks. It might have been the illness, because Ella had never seen her father cry before. During hard times — such as when his own mother had died, and when his wife, Ella’s mother, had died — his reaction had been to retreat into himself. His quiet and private grief was endured, and gradually his normal, cheerful personality re-established itself. To see actual tears was as disconcerting as his efforts at packing at one o’clock in the morning. “Dad? Are you okay? What’s going on?” Ella finally asked. He glanced up at her. “I’m leaving.” Ella pursed her lips. “Where are you going?” He wiped tears away with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to be a burden to you any longer.” 144

The Shadowed Mind Ella wasn’t sure what to say. He seemed to have some recognition of her, rather than staring at her with hostility, the way anyone would at a stranger in his or her home. “You’re not a burden,” she said gently. Had he somehow guessed at the turmoil within her? “I really want you to stay.” He slowly stood up and said, “Charlotte, you don’t understand. You don’t really know me.” Ella nodded to herself. He thought she was his young wife, and his mind was stuck decades past. “Of course I do. I know you well and I love you.” Ella moved closer to him, almost gliding so that she didn’t scare him. The old man snorted. “You don’t really know me! You don’t know some of the things I’ve done. You wouldn’t love me if you knew.” “If I knew what?” Ella wondered whether his ruined mind was imagining an event that had never happened, or whether he was remembering some real youthful folly. “If I told you, you wouldn’t love me anymore,” he said, staring at his suitcase. “I am not sure we should get married. I don’t deserve you.” “It doesn’t matter now,” Ella said, seeing that questioning him would only upset him further. “What’s done is done. It doesn’t change anything.” “How can you say that?” her father cried, and the anguish in his voice was so real that Ella began to doubt that it was imagined. “I don’t know if I can live with myself!” Ella tried to think of how her mother would have handled him. In a gentle, firm tone, she said, “That’s enough. You know I love you and that’s all that matters. There isn’t anything we can’t get through together. And I won’t have you leave.” Again the old man knuckled away tears and slumped on the bed. “You’re a good woman,” he whispered. “I don’t know that I deserve you. But since you’re determined to stay with me, then that’s all I need.” “So you’ll stay?” Ella said, almost holding her breath. She just couldn’t envisage herself barring her father’s way if he was still determined to leave. He was still physically much stronger than her. “Okay, if you’ll have me,” he said, and smiled at her. 145

A Dinah Harris Mystery She helped settle him back into bed, and then busied herself tidying up the clothes and suitcase he’d pulled out of the closet. By the time she’d finished, he was snoring softly. Ella checked the windows and doors, suddenly anxious that they be locked in case her father decided on another late-night excursion. Finally, she went back to bed but she couldn’t sleep. She stared at the ceiling, wondering what her father was talking about. Had there been some transgression in his youth that had threatened the relationship with his fiancée? Had Mom known what it was, if it were indeed real? What could be so bad that it moved him to tears and the declaration that he could never have forgiven himself? The man Ella had grown up with hadn’t seemed flawed in any way, though a child’s perspective is usually rooted in unreality. He’d always seemed strong, confident, and secure in his beliefs about right and wrong. He’d never doubted himself. He had a clear sense of direction for his family and his life. Yet — was it possible he’d been hiding a secret from his family for four decades? ****

Dr. Schlabach greeted Dinah and Cage as the pair pulled on the plastic protective clothing required in the autopsy room the following morning. “I seem to be seeing an awful lot of you,” he commented, standing at the head of Ashleigh Colter’s body like he was presiding at the head of a banquet table. “I’d like to say that it’s a pleasure, but the circumstances don’t allow it.” “We’re equally as frustrated,” said Cage. “We have to stop this guy and we need your help.” There had been no mention between Cage and Dinah of the short confrontation the previous evening. Dinah had put it down to stress and she was just as glad not to talk about it as Cage. She thoroughly hated deep and meaningful conversations. “Well, happy to oblige where I can,” said the medical examiner. “Shall we begin?” Dinah focused her attention on the body, which had been opened up, examined, and stitched closed already. It was the only sign of violence on her body except for the limp neck and head. 146

The Shadowed Mind “Again, no external, visible signs of violence,” said Dr. Schlabach. “No bruising, cuts, scratches, or defensive wounds. It would be my guess that the killer had built up sufficient trust with the victim to enable him to stand close behind her to complete this twisting motion on the neck.” The doctor pointed to a whiteboard at the end of the room. “You’ll note I’ve done comparisons of the three victims with regard to their height. All three were in the vicinity of five foot five or so. This would suggest to me that one of the factors the killer considers in the victim is their height. It is much easier to apply torsion to the neck if one is significantly taller than the victim.” Dinah approached the whiteboard to look more closely at Dr. Schlabach’s work. All three victims’ heights were within an inch of each other. It was another clue, however small, that might lead to the killer. “Nice work, doc,” complimented Cage. “I know you wouldn’t normally do that, so it is much appreciated.” “If I may offer a personal opinion, rather than a professional one,” Dr. Schlabach said, leaning toward Cage conspiratorially. “I can guess what the killer is doing — choosing small, frail victims that are probably much weaker than he. He’s a coward in my book, and I want to do all I can to see that he’s caught.” That was why, thought Dinah, Dr. Schlabach was highly esteemed on a national level in his work. He really cared about the bodies that came across his autopsy table, and he cared about why they died. “So, just like your other victims, this lady died from a broken neck, which was caused by applying the force of torsion,” continued the doctor. “No defensive wounds and nothing underneath her fingernails.” “So there’s no DNA or evidence that could help?” Cage asked, the disappointment evident in his voice. “None,” confirmed Dr. Schlabach. “But I did find something unusual.” “What?” Dinah asked eagerly. “I found some chips or flakes of a foreign material,” he said, holding up an evidence jar. “I’ll send it to the lab so we know exactly what it is.” “Could it be polyurethane?” Cage asked, squinting at the tiny fragments in the jar. 147

A Dinah Harris Mystery Dr. Schlabach pursed his lips. “Could be. Why do you ask?” “The crime scene guys found these flakes of polyurethane where the body was found,” explained Cage. “And also where the van was parked, but nowhere else. They think the flakes were dropped there by the killer. Where did you find them?” “In the victim’s hair,” replied the doctor. “If the killer did indeed drop them, it makes sense.” “Why do you say that?” Cage asked. “Can I demonstrate on you, Dinah?” Dr. Schlabach asked. Dinah nodded. Dr. Schlabach positioned himself directly behind her and placed his hands on her neck to demonstrate. “Dinah is quite a tall woman,” he said. “So imagine I’m another foot taller. My arms would be in direct contact with her hair as my hands enclose her throat. That is the only contact I would make with her during the entire murder. If the killer is ferrying around flakes of polyurethane, it makes sense to find some in her hair.” The three of them stood in silence contemplating this information. If it was the killer shedding flakes of polyurethane, it made sense to find them on and around the victim, the crime scene, and the vehicle. “So,” said Dinah at length. “Now we just need to find out about polyurethane — how it can be flaked and transported.” “Right. I’d say it’s a pretty solid clue,” said Dr. Schlabach. “Given that we have nothing else of use to you at this point, anyway.” “Thanks, doc,” said Cage, writing furiously in his little notebook. After stripping off the plastic clothing, Cage and Dinah stood on the front step of the morgue. “So what do we have?” Cage asked rhetorically. “We have a killer who spends time building up trust with his victims and plans each crime with detail and care. He chooses victims who are small and unworthy of life, at least in his eyes. He seems to be trained in some obscure martial art, he supports the concept of eugenics, and he carries around polyurethane flakes. Have I missed anything?” Dinah sighed. “I don’t think so. To hear it said aloud makes me realize just how little we’ve got.” “Think positive, Dinah. Do you really think he can resist the power of our combined investigative efforts?” Cage said, with a small grin. 148

The Shadowed Mind Dinah laughed, pleased that he seemed to have gotten over his anger toward her. “I can’t speak for you, Cage, but he definitely can’t resist my incredible intelligence and instinct!” “Is that why you think I asked for your help?” Cage asked. “I thought it was to bring me coffee and do all my typing.” “Boy, did you mess up,” quipped Dinah. “I burn coffee and I can’t type.” Cage’s cell phone buzzed as he shook his head at her. After a few moments, he said to Dinah, “Let’s roll. That was Tetyaki, and he might have some useful information for us.”

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he killer arrived at the Forest Glen Palliative Care Home with a backpack. The staff was getting to know him, and they often waved him through without bothering with the usual policy rules — which included checking the bags of any visitors. Billy waited for him in the library, which was his favorite room. He had trouble picking up a book and reading it himself, but he enjoyed being read to by the killer. He’d confessed that while still able-bodied, he’d never been interested in books, but now he loved them. “Hi, Billy,” the killer greeted the young man, cheerfully. He sat his backpack down on the floor, and it made a chinking noise. Billy looked at him eagerly. He didn’t have to speak to show his excitement. 150

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The killer withdrew a six-pack of beer from the backpack, unequivocally against the rules at Forest Glen. “As promised,” he said, with a dramatic flourish. He popped the top off one of the bottles and handed it carefully to Billy. The young man used what remaining strength and dexterity he still possessed in his hand to take a sip from the bottle. Then he closed his eyes in bliss. “Thank you,” Billy said, after another sip. “I finally feel human again.” “I brought a newspaper today,” said the killer, taking it from the backpack. He spread it out so that it covered the coffee table in front of Billy. “What section would you like?” “Sports,” said Billy immediately. The killer found the section and helped him open it up, then chose the front pages for himself. They spent several moments in companionable silence. “You know, I really miss this,” Billy said presently. “What’s that?” the killer asked. “Just hanging out,” said Billy. “Like, with a friend.” He looked away, embarrassed. “Nobody hangs out with me anymore.” The killer adopted a look of concern. “You don’t have any visitors?” “No,” said Billy. “My friends — well, they used to be my friends — are uncomfortable with me. The staff here are really great, but they don’t have time to spend with me. So . . . what I’m trying to say, I guess, is that . . . well, thanks.” “You’re welcome,” said the killer warmly. “I just figure if our roles were reversed, I’d appreciate someone hanging out with me.” They fell into silence again, while the killer absorbed the knowledge that Billy had few visitors. “What’s in the news?” Billy asked. “Apart from the fact that the Nationals have lost their last four games, I mean.” The killer was about to answer when a headline caught his eye: “Martial Arts Killer Strikes Again.” He frowned and scanned the article. The Metropolitan Police Department says that a third murder victim found in the city in as many weeks bears 151

A Dinah Harris Mystery an uncanny similarity and could be the work of one killer. Lakeisha Tennant, 17; Benjamin Steffan, 36; and Ashleigh Colter, 34, were all found with the same injuries that led to their deaths. Police refuse to comment on the exact nature of the injuries, but say that they are following a number of leads. Police will say, however, that it appears the killer has specialist knowledge in the area of martial arts and that they are vigorously pursuing this avenue of investigation. Although police did not speculate on the nature of the crimes, it is apparent they have enlisted the help of an expert FBI criminal profiler, which would indicate they believe the murders are the work of a serial killer. The killer was amused. The fact that they’d realized his method of murder was linked to martial arts was slightly disturbing, but reasonably hard to trace. He thought it interesting that they’d released no information regarding the calling cards he’d left on each body. Mostly, he thought about who he knew was investigating the murders — MPD Detective Samson Cage and ex-FBI criminal profiler Dinah Harris. Perhaps it was time to do some investigating of his own and learn more about those who were hunting him. Suddenly he realized Billy was talking to him. “Sorry, what did you say?” “I said, are you okay?” Billy asked. “You look strange.” The killer took a deep breath and rearranged his features, trying to aim for a composed look. “Oh, I’m fine. I was just reading an interesting article.” “Oh. Hand me another beer, would you?” Billy asked. The killer glanced at him. “You feeling all right?” “Never better,” said Billy with a skewed smile. The killer could see the huge weight of sadness resting on the young man, who probably thought every day about what his life used to be like, and what he might have been doing had he not been struck down with Huntington’s disease. The killer felt a pang in his stomach. Guilt? Anxiety? He had to admit that he did not feel comfortable with the thought of killing Billy. It didn’t sit straight with him. It took him several minutes to work out 152

The Shadowed Mind why. He had nothing in common with his other victims and he was secure in his knowledge that they had all been inferior in every way. He could see himself in Billy — a man who loved sports and a cold beer, who carried a healthy disregard for the regulations and had a voracious appetite for books. His only flaw was a vicious turn of fate, to be struck with a disease that slowly robbed him of independence and pride. His misfortune hadn’t been the result of poor choices, ignorance, or lack of insight. However, this time the point he was making was a little different: while Huntington’s disease was genetic, it was unlikely Billy Atwood would ever reproduce and the killer’s intervention would be unnecessary. Except that while Billy remained alive, his continual care consumed vast amounts of money and resources which would be better spent on the healthy, strong segment of the population. It was better for everyone if Billy was euthanized. Better for Billy, who would be free of his wretched existence; better for his family, who were paying immense sums of money for his care; and better for society, who subsidized facilities such as the Forest Glen Palliative Care Home. His resolve strengthened, the killer wiped sweaty palms on his jeans. A thought suddenly struck him. He turned to Billy and asked, casually, “Billy, if I can ask a personal question: have you ever thought about suicide?” ****

Tetyaki waited for them inside his office. His bald head gleamed under the fluorescent lights and he wore a sober expression. His office was filled with the muted shouts of students, practicing their sport. “I’m afraid what I’ve learned isn’t particularly encouraging,” he said, without preamble. “Your killer possesses a knowledge that exists only in the deepest recesses of the martial arts. No credible master would ever teach such techniques to anyone. In the past, they’ve been used strictly for military purposes.” Detective Cage nodded. “Okay. Please go on.” “There are two possibilities,” continued Tetyaki, stroking his little moustache. “The first is known as Lerdrit, which is a modified version of the Muay Thai martial art. It is taught and practiced by the Thai military and has existed for centuries. It’s thought to have originated in 153

A Dinah Harris Mystery about the 16th century where combat between rival chiefs and kings were common. It’s a particularly fast, brutal kind of fighting at close quarters. Some Lerdrit techniques are designed to kill an opponent in less than four moves. This neck torsion move would be one of those moves. Lerdrit is more closely related to the ancient practice of Muay Boran, where the goal is to maximize the damage inflicted by each blow. I couldn’t find anyone even willing to teach Muay Boran anymore, because most of its techniques are illegal in the world of competition. Many fighters have died or been severely injured practicing Muay Boran and Lerdrit. There would be very few authentic masters of the art remaining outside of Thailand.” “Pardon my ignorance,” said Dinah. “What is Muay Thai?” “Muay Thai is essentially kickboxing,” explained Tetyaki. “Opponents use fists, elbows, knees, and feet to strike each other. Lerdrit is very similar, except that an open hand is used instead of a closed fist to reduce the likelihood of injury to yourself and emphasizes forward pressure in order to get your opponent off-balance.” “I see,” said Cage. “I should mention that I believe some of our special forces, such as the Marines and Rangers, are also taught techniques very similar to Lerdrit moves. Obviously, they are designed for a situation in which a soldier has lost his weapon, backup and any other means of defense. I couldn’t get anyone in the armed forces to confirm this for me, but you might keep in mind that your killer could have training as a Marine or Ranger.” “That’s a possibility I hadn’t imagined,” admitted Cage. Dinah felt a sense of disquiet grow within her. Her nemesis, Senator David Winters, had been a lieutenant in the Special Forces before entering the political arena. The man who’d killed the secretary of the Smithsonian had been a Ranger under Winters’ command. Could Winters have found another loyal solider to complete his dirty work? “The second possibility is Maharlika Kuntaw. This is a martial art from the Philippines, and in addition to using hands, feet, elbows, and so on, they also use sticks and swords as weapons. The concept behind the techniques taught is to redirect the force of an attack back to its source by seeking to control the force. The reason I suggested this particular art was that it was forced underground after the Spanish arrived 154

The Shadowed Mind there around the time of Magellan. In any case, the reason I bring it to your attention is that any martial art developed in a guerrilla environment will most likely evolve moves designed to be fatal. There are little regulation or safety concerns, and the very reason the techniques are used is for survival. I am not aware of a specific neck-torsion technique, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.” “So are Lerdrit and Kuntaw taught and practiced here in the United States?” Cage inquired. “Yes, there are a number of legitimate masters teaching both arts. There are also competitions in both styles, where the fighting is clean and safe.” Tetyaki paused. “To be honest, I don’t really know of any rogue masters out there because it’s a scene I don’t have much to do with. But you could start with this one.” Tetyaki pushed a piece of paper across the desk. He had written a single name. “This teacher has been banned from competition due to his students using dangerous and illegal techniques in Muay Thai,” Tetyaki explained. “From what I recall, some of those techniques could well have been Lerdrit. I hope this is some help to you.” “Actually, you’ve been of enormous help,” said Cage. “You’ve saved us hours of trawling through countless legitimate operations in search of a rogue.” “I’m glad to help,” said Tetyaki, inclining his head. The three stood and shook hands. As Tetyaki grasped Dinah’s hand, he covered it with his other hand firmly and said, “In Japan, we have an old proverb that says, do not store up your sadness in your heart, for it will wither and die. Do you understand?” Dinah was touched by the man’s concern for her and smiled. “Or you could say, cast all your cares upon Him, for He cares for you.” Tetyaki smiled. “Are you a Christian, Dinah?” “I am,” said Dinah. “I’m slow in learning to trust God for all my cares, but I know He does care.” Tetyaki squeezed her hand and she nodded awkwardly in appreciation, knowing he didn’t really understand. ****

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A Dinah Harris Mystery As Cage drove back to headquarters, his cell phone chirped. He listened intently, spoke a few words and then hung up. “That was headquarters,” he told Dinah. “Apparently some uniforms were called out to Dulles Airport to investigate what appears to be an abandoned van. It might well be the one used in the murder of Ashleigh Colter.” Dinah felt her heartbeat quicken with the new lead. “Might be? Why aren’t they sure?” “Different plates,” explained Cage. “But it looks like they’ve been recently swapped with another car. Let’s go find out.” Cage turned the car toward the airport and eventually got onto the Dulles Toll Road. The traffic was thick and slow and as they trundled along, Dinah’s curiosity got the better of her and she asked, “So do you feel like talking about that Internal Affairs thing?” Samson Cage glanced at her. “No, I don’t.” “Were you investigated for something?” Dinah wondered how far she could push him. Cage was silent. “You can tell me,” encouraged Dinah. She laughed. “I got fired from the FBI! You can’t get much worse than that.” Silence. “Oh, I get it. If you ignore me, I’ll go away, is that it?” Dinah teased him. “I’m not going to talk about it,” said Cage evenly. “That’s my final word on the matter.” Dinah knew she better not push his buttons any further, so she gave up and stared out of the window at the traffic snarled around them. Curiosity gnawed at her insides and she wondered if she’d ever get the full story out of the detective. Finally, they arrived at Dulles International Airport and drove to the long-term parking, where the white van had been found. The uniforms had roped it off with crime-scene tape, but hadn’t touched it any further. Zach and his crime lab technicians had beaten the investigators there and he gave them a jaunty wave. He wore plastic protective clothing over his whole body and hair, but Dinah could see what looked like an enormous diamond twinkling in his eyebrow. 156

The Shadowed Mind The uniform who had called in Detective Cage approached them. He seemed to be a very serious man, and he immediately explained the situation to them gravely. “The airport has a policy where any cars abandoned here are reported to the police first, in case they’re stolen,” he explained. “Cars are considered abandoned if they’re left here for more than seven days after the ticket has expired.” “This van would have been here for 24 hours at a maximum,” said Dinah frowning. “Yes, I realize that. If a car doesn’t display the parking ticket, the same policy is followed,” replied the uniformed cop. “The van didn’t have a ticket. The airport corporation tells me it’s quite common for stolen cars to be dumped here. They don’t waste any time contacting the police.” “So you handled the call?” Cage asked. “Right. I checked the stolen vehicles reports and a white van had been stolen from a car dealership in Anacostia about a week ago, but with different plates. I checked the plates and they belonged to a Mustang currently residing on a car lot in Hyattsville. And I put two and two together and thought about your case.” “You did a good job,” said Cage. “This may well be the van the killer used in his last crime.” The cop nodded. “Well, it’s all yours.” Cage and Dinah ducked under the tape and took a good look at the van. Dinah stared at the side of the vehicle and took a few steps back. “Can you see that?” she asked Cage, tilting her head sideways and squinting. Cage followed her gaze. “See what?” “I can see an outline of something,” she said. “If you look hard, you can see that the van has a fine layer of dirt covering it. But on the side, I can see several stripes where there is no dirt. Can you see the faint color difference?” “Like a sign being fixed to the paintwork?” Cage asked thoughtfully. “Yeah, like maybe the Drug Response Team emblem fixed to the paintwork,” suggested Dinah. Motioning Zach over, she asked the lab technician to use his highresolution digital camera to take photos, hoping the slight disparity in 157

A Dinah Harris Mystery the paint would be obvious in a photo. Zach then began to swab the side of the van, while Dinah turned her attentions to the interior of the vehicle. Inside, the van was clean and uncluttered, as one would expect a van on a car lot to be. Dinah was hoping for a careless mistake, like a fingerprint or a drink with a straw in it from which they’d be able to extract DNA. The two-seater cabin was already covered in black fingerprint dust, but Dinah opened the glove box and other storage containers anyway, hoping to find something. There was nothing, not even a manual for the car itself. Zach materialized at her side, looking like a ghost in his white plastic clothing. “We’re pretty much done,” he told her. “Find anything?” Dinah asked, frustration evident in her voice. “In terms of fingerprints: no,” said Zach. “We vacuumed the whole van, so hopefully we’ll get something from that.” “That’s it?” Dinah felt hope fading. “You did test the exterior side of the van, didn’t you?” “We’ve swabbed it and I’m willing to bet there will be residue of standard industrial tape.” Dinah sighed. “Let’s hope the vacuum will give us something.” “I’ll try my best,” promised Zach. One of his team members approached and handed him a small evidence bag with what looked like a rectangular piece of cardboard in it. “We found it underneath the passenger seat,” the crime lab technician said. “It missed our first sweep because it was wedged against the side of the vehicle.” “Good work,” Zach told her. He looked at the evidence bag carefully then handed it to Dinah. Dinah’s heart lurched as she realized what the bag contained. It was a simple business card. On one side were a name, address, and contact details, much like any other business card. Scrawled on the back of the card were an address, a date, and a time. It was the name on the card that captivated Dinah. It was somebody they’d already met — Edward Sable, owner and operator of a series of organic supermarkets and administrator of a eugenics website. 158

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As soon as Senator David Winters heard the outer door to his office bang open, followed by the hapless cries of his secretary, he knew the interior door would soon be flung open and filled with the bulky figure of Texan conservative Senator Jerry Devine. This time, Winters was expecting his call. Devine strode into the office, glared at his contemporary and combed his fingers through his thick, white hair. All the while, his eyes never left Winters’ face. “What are you up to?” he asked quietly. Winters leaned back in his chair. “You should congratulate yourself, old boy. You started it when you forced your way into my office a week ago and threatened me. I talked it over with my colleagues and we agreed that the last thing we need is a grand-stander like you holding up the process any further. America really needs this bill passed, Senator.” “What you did,” said Devine, through clenched teeth, “hasn’t been done in more than a hundred years of legislature.” “We live in uncertain and tumultuous times, old boy,” said Winters smugly. “I did what the American people would have expected me to do.” Winters reflected on his gutsy, unprecedented move in the Senate. The conservatives were raising a fuss about the size of the bill, and they wanted more time to dissect it thoroughly — with the intent of sending it back to the House with a dozen or more amendments. This included a lengthy public reading of the bill, at which time his little provision would send collective shivers down the spines of the conservatives. Winters knew that the remainder of his fee from the Movement depended upon the bill being passed soon. Constitutionally, he had been within his right to present a motion to the Senate to waive a public reading of the bill in the Senate. The party who introduced the bill to the House was given that option. The liberals had the majority in the Senate, and so Winters’ waiver was passed. What it meant was that the bill was now expedited through the process to the point of being voted on, and the conservatives were outraged. There was no way they could read the bill in its entirety before they were required to vote on it. There was every 159

A Dinah Harris Mystery chance Winters’ provision would be passed with little examination. Winters realized Devine had spoken. “Sorry, what did you say?” he asked. “I said, I’m calling a press conference,” the Texan told him. “The public deserves to know what you’ve done in the Senate, and I hope the media investigate it thoroughly. And you’d better believe that my office will be combing through that bill 24 hours a day to find what you’re trying to hide.” “Comb away,” replied Winters, with a chuckle. “We’re not trying to hide anything. We’re simply trying to do the right thing by the American people.” Devine looked at him contemptuously. “Since when did you enter politics to do anything right by the American people?” “You know, it really pains me to know that you think so poorly of me,” said Winters sarcastically. Devine smiled. “When I was voted into the Senate, I made one promise to myself. I promised that I would never make a decision that would disadvantage, compromise, or embarrass my constituents. I’ve kept that promise through all my years as a senator. Have you?” Winters laughed. “I didn’t make any such promise. Your naivety astounds me. Did you ever think you’d have to make a decision for the greater good of the country, even if it meant the sacrifice of a few?” “When I go back to Texas, I can hold my head up high. I have nothing to fear from any media investigations or Freedom of Information files,” Devine said. “My decisions have always been transparent and honest, even if they weren’t necessarily popular. But I think Californians would be very disappointed in you if they knew the lengths to which you’d go to hide something from them. I don’t know what it is you’re hiding, but I know it’s something. And I mean to find out what it is.” Winters shrugged. “By all means, go ahead, old boy. I’m not afraid of you.” “You’re too arrogant to know when to feel fear,” said Devine, shaking his head. “It’ll be your undoing.” “You’re an idiot, Devine,” snapped Winters. “You think I’ve never felt fear? I served my country under gunfire, cannon fire, airstrike, and missile attack. I’ve seen men lose arms, legs, and their own minds. I’ve 160

The Shadowed Mind seen men being breathtakingly brave and I’ve seen men being insanely cowardly. All of this I’ve seen while you’ve been inspecting your oil rigs, like a king presiding over your kingdom, amassing a fortune that you’ve had the privilege to build because men like me have fought and died for you. I know what fear is. The difference between me and you is that I turn my fear into action, into something useful, while you wallow in it, making empty threats.” During Winters’ speech, Devine had turned an interesting shade of deep red. “I know you’re a dangerous enemy, Winters,” he said, at length. “But I won’t stand by while you use the Senate to achieve your own ends at the cost of the people you represent.” He wheeled and walked away while Winters watched him go. You’re right about one thing, old boy. I’m a very dangerous enemy to have.

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he meeting written on the card found in the white van, presumably used by the killer, was held in a rural property in the Virginia countryside. It was a small bungalow sitting atop a small hill, allowing a decent view of its surroundings. Rolling green hills were juxtaposed by brand new housing estates, where McMansions jostled for space with family-owned farms. Tonight it was surrounded by a plethora of cars, and lights blazed from every window. Cage and Dinah arrived a few minutes late, to give everyone time to get there before they knocked at the door. Although they could hear voices inside chattering, their knock silenced the crowd. Then a tentative voice said, “Who is it?” “Police,” barked Detective Cage. “Open up!” 162

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More silence. Then the heavy oak door swung inward, and Edward Sable stood, blinking at them in surprise. “What are you doing here?” he asked, frowning. “We just want to talk,” said Cage. “Can we come in?” Still confused, Sable didn’t resist and stood aside. Cage and Dinah walked past him into a living room replete with rough-hewn beams, a stone fireplace, and deer antlers hung on the wall. A low, square coffee table in the center of the room overflowed with sandwiches, cakes, and pastries. A bowl of punch smelled suspiciously as if it had been spiked. Standing in odd little groups around the room were the attendees of this meeting, now staring in bewilderment at their uninvited guests. Dinah scanned their faces, conscious she might be looking directly at a killer. None of the faces were familiar, until Dinah landed upon a pair of mocking black eyes: Leonard Marks, the PhD student of genetics and ethics with whom she’d lost her temper. He gazed at her with open hostility and contempt. Cage said to Sable, “Do you mind if I take the floor?” Sable shook his head mutely. “I appreciate that we’ve turned up here uninvited,” began Cage, speaking clearly and authoritatively. “The details of this meeting were inadvertently given to us by a murderer.” A collective gasp went up in the room. “I can’t give you the exact details,” continued Cage. “I was hoping you folks would tell me what this meeting is about.” Silence. “Since I’m sure none of you have anything to hide, I feel confident some of you will be forthcoming,” Cage added, with a sardonic smile. “Otherwise, I’m sure you’ll have no problems accompanying me back to the police station so that I can take an individual statement from each of you.” While he spoke, Dinah watched the facial expressions of those in the room. Most of them looked frightened or confused. A few, including Leonard Marks, considered the detective with distrust. 163

A Dinah Harris Mystery Finally, Sable stepped forward. “We meet because of a common interest,” he explained. His voice was shaky and he cleared his throat nervously. Cage waited, his face expressionless. Finally, “Which is?” “We’re a . . . eugenics group,” said Sable, glancing around at the members of his group, perhaps for encouragement or support. “I see,” said Cage. “By which, do you mean the belief in applying scientific principles to solve society’s problems?” “Broadly speaking, yes.” Sable regarded Cage with irritation. “I believe I’ve already explained this to you, when you asked about the website that I administer.” “We don’t need to go through all that again,” agreed Cage. “What I am more interested in is what you were planning to discuss at this meeting.” Sable shrugged, aiming to look indifferent. “We just talk about our common interest. We talk about upcoming events, books that we’ve read. We talk about current affairs.” “Do you talk about murder as a means to achieving your goals?” Cage asked bluntly. “Of course not,” said Sable. “But you do think that there are certain individuals who are not worthy of life,” said Dinah, biting off her words in an attempt to keep her emotions under control. “So what’s the difference?” Sable coughed uncomfortably. “Well . . . there’s a big difference. It is much worse to take someone’s life than to prevent it from happening at all.” “And do your colleagues here feel the same way?” Cage asked, looking around the room, making eye contact with several of them, who immediately looked away. “We don’t condone violence, sir,” spoke up a middle-aged woman, who identified herself as Susan Epping. “None of us would lift a finger against another.” Dinah found Leonard Mark’s steady gaze, and it was both challenging and scornful. Dinah glared back, not intimidated. She’d faced worse. “So what do you think about the murder of a drug addict, a schizophrenic, and a homeless woman?” Cage asked. “If I’ve read 164

The Shadowed Mind your literature correctly, they would all fall into a category labeled undesirable.” There was silence, and then Marks said, “Are you asking whether we’re sorry they’re dead?” “Are you?” asked Cage icily. “Not particularly,” declared Marks. “Do you think many people miss them?” “That doesn’t mean they deserved to be treated like human waste,” said Dinah, through clenched teeth. “All right,” said Cage, glancing at Dinah and taking control of the conversation. “We’ll need to take a statement from all of you. I’ll take your names, addresses, and contact details, and we’ll speak with you each tomorrow.” While Cage completed the information neatly and precisely in his notebook, Dinah hung back and watched the group. Sable fiddled frantically, his hands not still for more than a moment. Marks half-lay languidly on a couch, his expression steeped in his own superiority. Others in the room just looked bored. Nobody looked scared, but then what self-respecting sociopath would? As Sable was finishing, Dinah’s cell phone rang. “Hello?” “Hello, it’s Faith. Is everything okay?” Dinah gasped. It was her alcoholism counselor, Faith Kuijt, and Dinah knew exactly why she was calling. Hastily, she fled the small cabin and stood outside in the warm twilight air. “Oh, no! I’m sorry, I totally forgot!” Dinah exclaimed. At the same time every week, as part of her outpatient treatment, Dinah was supposed to attend a one-onone counseling session with Faith. “It’s this case, Faith. It’s keeping me so busy I completely forgot about our meeting.” “Okay,” said Faith agreeably. “As a solitary incident, I’ll overlook it. But it mustn’t happen again.” “Yes, okay, I know,” said Dinah. She took a deep breath of humid air and realized Cage was standing behind her. “You do understand why, don’t you?” Faith pressed. “This is not a disease you can beat on your own. You need help and support, and that’s where I come in.” “Yes,” agreed Dinah, hoping Cage wouldn’t overhear. “I understand. It won’t happen again.” 165

A Dinah Harris Mystery “Now,” continued Faith, in a business-like tone. Dinah closed her eyes and willed with every fiber in her being that the other woman would finish the conversation. “Are you going to church?” Dinah realized shamefully that she had not been in over two weeks — not since the case started. How could she admit this to Faith after just missing a vital counseling session? With self-preservation overpowering her conscience, Dinah lied: “Sure! It’s great. Really, really great.” There was silence as Faith digested this. Dinah had a sinking feeling that her counselor didn’t believe a word of it. “Dinah,” she said, finally, “you must also understand the importance of a church family.” “Yes, I do!” “I’m not sure that you do. The church is a family, a support network where you can learn more about God and deepen your faith,” said Faith. “Ideally, you should become part of a home group so that you can study the Bible together and share with each other. We weren’t created to be isolated.” For Dinah, who was a natural introvert and found it hard enough to go to church by herself, the suggestion to join a home group sounded like a nightmare. Again, she fibbed, “That’s a great idea. I’ll make sure I do that this weekend. I really mean it.” Faith sighed. “I’ll see you next week, Dinah. Don’t forget!” Dinah hung up, relieved, and turned to smile weakly at Cage. “Well,” she said. “If you’re done, let’s go!” “Everything okay?” he asked, frowning. “Perfect.” Two can play at this game, she thought. He won’t talk to me about something as trivial as his last partner, I’m sure not going to talk about this. They climbed into the car in silence. ****

Ella Barnett woke with a gasp, suddenly wide awake, her heart thudding in her throat. She stared into the darkness of her bedroom, while her ears strained to hear what had awoken her. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that there was no immediate danger and her 166

The Shadowed Mind heart rate began to slow. The adrenalin shot into her veins left her shaky and hyper-alert. She heard a faint noise and she listened intensely, but couldn’t work out what it was or from where it was coming. But she knew that it wasn’t ordinary, and so she climbed out of bed and opened her door a crack. The noise was a little louder in the hallway, and it corresponded to a splinter of light spilling from the attic trapdoor. A tight spiral staircase at the end of the hall allowed access to the attic and Ella moved slowly toward it, trying to quell her raging fear. Her heart had begun to race again, preparing her to fight or flee. She checked her father’s bedroom on the way and discovered it was empty. This strengthened her resolve to investigate the attic, if only because her father might be in danger. Her imagination began to run wild, envisaging that morally bankrupt burglars had taken her father hostage and were trying to make him tell them where the family riches were hidden; or that they were using him as bait to lure her into their clutches. She ascended the staircase slowly, her palms slick with sweat and the sound of blood rushing in her ears like a great river. At the top, she inched the trapdoor across so carefully and slowly that her nerve almost deserted her. Finally, when there was a space big enough to peer through, she muttered a quick prayer and forced herself to look. She expected to see more than her father hunched over an old trunk, the room lit by two dim, bare bulbs. Still not totally convinced the house was free of intruders, Ella scanned the room cautiously until she was confident enough to enter the attic. Then she realized what the sound was that had awoken her. It was the sound of her father sobbing — great, gut wrenching moans that literally shook the old man’s shoulders. Ella felt suddenly cold all over as she listened to him, a feeling of unshakable dread and anxiety making her stomach twist and writhe inside her. Eventually, she found the courage to speak. “Dad?” She hesitantly moved closer to him, instinctively afraid that he might lash out. “Dad, are you okay?” 167

A Dinah Harris Mystery Though he didn’t recognize her when he looked up through his tears, it didn’t seem to matter. Ella saw that he clutched a book close to his chest. “What have I done?” he asked her, anguish raw in his voice. “How can I live with this?” “It’ll be okay,” assured Ella. “It doesn’t matter now.” “Don’t you see?” he implored. “It does matter. It matters very much.” He looked down at the book and began to cry again. Before this disease, Ella had never seen her father, the cornerstone of the family, cry. Even then, she’d never seen him sob so powerfully that his whole body shook. In fact, he’d never shown great variances in his emotions. A proud smile was as powerful as a disappointed frown. The depth of the sadness he felt here was shocking to Ella. She could see that it was the book causing him distress. She reasoned that if she could get the book away from him, he would begin to calm down. She glanced around and saw an ancient, overstuffed armchair nearby. “Can I at least give you a chair?” she said. “You can’t kneel on these hard floorboards all night.” “If you knew what I’d done, young lady,” he said. “You wouldn’t offer me a chair. You’d turn and leave and never set your eyes on me again.” “Dad, that’s not true,” Ella said. “Please sit. You’ll be much more comfortable if you sit down.” It took several minutes of cajoling, but finally the old man allowed himself to be led to the battered armchair. As he sat down and Ella got a good look at his face, she could see he was pale, drawn with exhaustion. He seemed to retreat then, refusing to answer Ella’s gentle questions or suggestions. He stroked the book, whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just don’t know how to make this right.” Ella decided there wasn’t much else she could do. She found an old, thin mattress that smelled of mildew and a blanket that smelled of wet dog. She lay down near her father and waited for fatigue to claim him. She was too wound up to sleep, her mind now turning at a frenetic pace, trying to understand what she’d seen. 168

The Shadowed Mind Finally, several hours later her father finally dropped into heavy sleep. The book fell from his clasp into his lap. Ella retrieved it, careful not to wake him, and looked at it with intrigue. It was titled The Lost Boys, by Peter Kilpatrick and Henry Black, and there was a black and white photograph on the front cover of two young boys, each with an old-fashioned haircut. It looked like an autobiography. It was decades old, and briefly Ella thought of her father’s wellorganized study downstairs, where he kept and displayed every book he owned with pride. He treasured books and could read them over and over again. Except this one, hidden in the attic for dozens of years. What could this book contain, that required concealment from even family members, and that could cause such an outpouring of emotion from her father? In the coming days, Ella would wish she had never found it nor opened the cover to read of its secrets. ****

As Cage and Dinah drove away from the rural property, his cell phone rang. With a weary sigh, he glanced at the caller ID and then put the phone on speaker. It was close to midnight and Dinah’s eyes felt heavy and hooded. “Detective Cage,” he answered. “Hi, it’s Zach from the lab.” The young crime scene technician sounded just as tired and was subdued, not bothering with his usual trademark jokes. “I’ve just finished with the preliminary study of the van and I thought you’d want to know.” “Thanks, I appreciate it,” said Cage. “What have you got?” “I found polyurethane flakes identical to those found where the body was found and where the van was parked,” explained Zach. “I found them in the drivers’ seat and right at the back of the van, where the door opens.” “Presumably he dropped them there while he rummaged around,” said Dinah, thinking of the video footage in which the unidentified person had stood at the back of the vehicle, seemingly searching for something. 169

A Dinah Harris Mystery “Oh, hi, Dinah,” said Zach. “That’d be my theory, anyway.” “So can you tell where the polyurethane flakes have come from?” Cage asked. “Our killer is shedding them like my dog sheds hair. Where would he have picked them up from?” “We’ll have to conduct further testing,” said Zach. “Unfortunately it has a wide range of industrial uses which makes it hard to single out where these particular flakes might have originated. Polyurethane is used in foam, paint, insulation, sealant, glue, and resin, to name a few. We’ll have to look at the compounds of these flakes to work out its purpose.” “But you’ll be able to narrow it down to a certain product,” said Cage, staring thoughtfully straight ahead at the dark road. “Oh, yeah,” said Zach. “I don’t know if that’ll help, though.” “At the moment, we need all the help we can get,” said Dinah. “We’re running short on leads.” “Well, you know I’ll give it my best shot,” said Zach. He paused for a moment, and then remarked, “Don’t you think it’s weird that the media hasn’t picked this up?” Dinah and Cage glanced at each other. “What do you mean?” Dinah asked. “I’m just thinking about your last case,” said Zach. “The media was all over you, pressuring you to find the killer. This time, I haven’t seen any attention given to it. There are three victims now, possibly a serial killer in the mix. Usually the press would have a field day!” There was silence as Cage and Dinah digested his comments, knowing his words had a ring of truth about them. “I suppose,” said Cage eventually, “the victims aren’t as high profile as the Smithsonian case.” “I’ll tell you what it is,” said Zach. “The victims are disposable. The killer is choosing victims that the mainstream press doesn’t care about. They’re fringe dwellers. As long as normal folks aren’t threatened, nobody’s interested.” His words brought to Dinah’s mind the ugly research she’d done into eugenics and the labels given to certain groups of people, including “undesirable” or “substandard.” “I care,” she said tightly. “It doesn’t matter who they are or whether society thinks they’re not important. I care.” 170

The Shadowed Mind “I know you do,” said Zach. “That’s why you’re good at catching the bad guys. Anyway, that’s enough maudlin thinking for one evening. I’ll get back to you once we’ve finished the testing.” “Maudlin?” Dinah teased, trying to lighten the conversation. “That’s a big word for you to know, Zach.” “I have many hidden talents,” replied Zach. “Being super intelligent is just one of them. I don’t like to make you inferior types feel even worse, that’s all.” “Well, thank you for your consideration,” said Dinah dryly. “I’ll sob myself to sleep tonight, though.” “Understandably,” said Zach laughing. “I’ll talk to you later.” Cage hung up and Dinah lapsed into thoughtful silence. “How is it,” inquired Dinah, at length, “that our guy can kill three people and all he leaves behind are flakes of polyurethane?” Cage glanced at her. “You feeling frustrated?” “Yes,” admitted Dinah. “Aren’t you?” “I don’t let it get to me,” said Cage calmly. “It’s a competition. He’s on one side, I’m on the other. The difference is that he thinks he’s winning; I know I’ll win.” “How can you be unemotional about it?” Dinah asked. “I mean, I get that all investigators need to leave their emotions behind to some degree. But when I track a killer, I’m consumed with the desire to get him.” Cage looked at her frankly. “We’ll get him, Dinah.” Dinah sighed. “Yeah, I know. Are you ever going to tell me what happened with the Internal Affairs thing?” “Gee, sneaky move!” said Cage, allowing himself a smile. There was a moment of silence. “Well, are you?” “No.” “You are the most frustrating person on the earth!” exclaimed Dinah. “So they tell me.” Cage remained infuriatingly silent on the subject. Dinah narrowed her eyes at him as the car shot smoothly through the night toward DC. She vowed that eventually she would get the story out of him. 171

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The staff had become accustomed to the killer arriving every day to visit Billy. He was so lovely, spending all his spare time with Billy, they thought to themselves. They didn’t bother to check the contents of his backpack and when the two of them sat in the library, they were left alone. Billy was waiting for his visitor, as usual. When he asked eagerly, “Did you bring it?” the killer nodded. The killer carefully scanned the hallways of the palliative care home. They were empty. The day staff had gone home, and a much smaller night staff were busily getting some of the more incapacitated residents ready for bed. Watchfully, he closed the library door and pushed the lock mechanism silently. Then he switched off the overhead lights and allowed only the table lamps to remain burning. The room was bathed in pockets of soft, yellow light with long, slanted shadows reaching dark fingers up the walls. He unloaded the backpack. Inside, he’d brought a bottle of whiskey and a large bottle of barbiturates. Using the back of a spoon, he began to grind up the drugs into a fine powder. Billy watched him, unperturbed. The killer glanced at him. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. Billy closed his eyes briefly and said, “Yes.” The killer swiftly fixed a drink long on whiskey and short on Coke. He stirred in the ground-up barbiturates and put it on the tray in front of Billy. Carefully, he moved the straw so that Billy could easily sip the drink. Over the next hour, they sat together comfortably, Billy sipping down the drink and the killer making light conversation. Inside his head, he was thinking of the conversation he’d had with Billy at his last visit. Billy hated being trapped inside a deteriorating body. He could no longer work or take part in any of his favorite pastimes. Most painfully, he could no longer pitch a ball or slug a home run. He rarely had visitors and he was crushingly lonely. His dreams of marrying a girl and having a family were over. How could he be a proper father as his body 172

The Shadowed Mind wasted away? How could he offer a potential wife any sort of life? All he had to look forward to was watching television and listening to audio books until those senses failed him, too. Eventually, all he could look forward to was death, the only release from the tedium of his wasted life. When the killer had brought up the concept of suicide, Billy had eagerly grasped the idea. He was physically unable to do it, but he had almost begged the killer to do it for him. Being devoid of any sense of normal morality, the killer had agreed, though he had of course pretended that the idea disturbed him. He could quite happily make his point, regardless of how Billy died. Now he glanced over at the young man. “Are you sure about this?” he asked. Something deep inside him seemed to care about Billy’s predicament. He couldn’t quite fathom it himself. Billy paused, gathering his strength. Then he said as forcefully as possible: “Yes!” There was no doubting his intentions. He took long sips of the doctored brew, talking occasionally. Mostly, they sat in companionable silence. The killer thought this was how it should be. How many people wasted away in homes like these, living an existence that could barely pass for a life? Wasn’t the humane thing to do to help them shuffle off this mortal coil? The resources, time, and money that went into keeping them alive were astounding. It benefited everyone to help them die with dignity, The killer watched Billy, as he fought sleep. Finally, his eyes closed and his head drooped in his wheelchair. Still he waited in the dark room, as Billy’s chest moved up and down rhythmically at first, then more slowly. His breathing grew shallow and the color in his face slowly drained away, indicative of the life itself within Billy slowly ebbing to its end. Finally, Billy stopped breathing altogether. The killer waited for about 30 minutes, wanting to make sure that a nurse wouldn’t find him and resuscitate him. Eventually, the killer touched Billy’s wrist, searching for a pulse. The skin was cooling and waxy, and there was no sign of a heartbeat. 173

A Dinah Harris Mystery The killer pulled a card out of his pocket and read the message slowly. Perfect, he thought. He placed the card inside Billy’s T-shirt, next to his chest. Then he hoisted the backpack up and walked out of the library. As he left the home, he said goodbye to the nurses cheerfully. His mind had already left Billy and the Forest Glen Palliative Care Home far behind. He wanted to find out as much as possible about Detective Samson Cage and his consultant, Dinah Harris. Perhaps it was time to eliminate those who were hunting him, so that he could continue his most important work.

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he next morning, the extensive task of questioning the eugenics society members began. Detective Cage had organized a team of detectives to help out for the day so that the assignment wouldn’t take several weeks. Edward Sable complained bitterly over the phone of discrimination and being treated like criminals because of their affiliation. Dinah told him archly that if he had nothing to hide, then it wouldn’t be a problem. All members of the society would be called upon in their homes or workplaces to give their statement. Dinah was relieved to see that together with Detective Cage, they would interview Edward Sable first, followed by the hotheaded Leonard Marks. Once again they found themselves inside the plain office of Sable’s organic supermarket. This time, Sable was clearly antagonistic. “I don’t 176

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know why you’re harassing me,” he snapped. “I told you everything I know.” “Are you the only eugenics society in DC?” Cage asked, ignoring the man’s remonstrations. “Yes.” Sable glared out of the tiny window, his jaw tight and angry. “Bear with us, and tell us about your mission again,” Cage suggested, his tone faintly derisive. Sable made a great show of heaving a big sigh. “As I already told you, we strive to educate society about the importance of leaving a wonderful legacy to future generations.” “And what legacy would that be?” “Good health and excellent intelligence.” “And why do you think it’s so important to society?” “We are concerned with the human race evolving in an unfavorable direction,” Sable said, playing with his grey ponytail absentmindedly. “And if we continue to do so, our civilization will steadily decline until chaos takes over. Is that what we want for our children?” Dinah stared at him. “So essentially you would like to breed out problems like stupidity and illness and immorality?” “That’s a bit simplistic, but yes. Imagine the growth of our civilization if we could achieve this!” Sable looked momentarily misty-eyed. “Therefore, you’d support a program of forced sterilization of people who were of low IQ, or mentally ill, or immoral?” Dinah asked. Sable didn’t see the trap. “Yes, I would. Our country used to do it for more than half a century. I think it would do society a great service to bring it back.” “So in the absence of a state-run program, perhaps you’ve decided to carry out your own forced sterilization method,” suggested Cage. “Except your method is murder.” Sable suddenly realized where the conversation was headed. “No, absolutely not!” “Have you ever studied a martial art, Mr. Sable?” Dinah asked. The sudden change in direction completely threw Edward Sable. “No, I haven’t.” He looked nonplussed. 177

A Dinah Harris Mystery “Ever spent time in Bangkok or Manila?” Cage pressed. Sable stared at the two investigators, his eyes swiveling back and forth desperately. “I’ve been to Bangkok on vacation once.” “For how long?” “It was only two weeks!” Sable seemed to suddenly understand that the interview was much more serious than he’d thought. “How many people in your eugenics society advocate violence against certain members of the public?” Cage asked, switching the direction of the interrogation again. “Uh, I don’t know,” Sable said. “I don’t think any of them would advocate overt violence.” Cage looked at him calmly while unfolding a piece of paper he had taken from his pocket. “I found an interesting article on your website, authored and posted by you, only about a week ago. You suggest that society needs to accept the concept of birth restrictions through state coercion.” Cage looked at him. “Am I getting this right so far?” Sable was pale, but he nodded. “Because, of course, while you might be able to encourage people not to have children, they may not necessarily agree with you,” said Cage. “So therefore it becomes essential that coercion be used. You suggest that certain families be allowed to have three children, to allow population growth, while others are only allowed to have one child. Still others would not have any children. How do you propose to enforce such a policy?” Sable had the sense not to speak. Cage continued: “Through forced castration, forced sterilization, compulsory euthanasia, and compulsory abortion.” Dinah glared hotly at Sable. “All those methods sound pretty overtly violent to me, Mr. Sable,” said Cage softly. “And you’ve listed the groups of people to whom such methods would be inflicted.” He turned to Dinah. “Do you want to hear this?” “Please go on,” said Dinah acidly. “The drug-addicted. The mentally ill and impaired. The homeless. The physically disabled. Criminals. Those carrying genes for hereditary diseases. And so on.” 178

The Shadowed Mind Cage looked up and stared at Sable. “Is it just me, or is this one big coincidence?” Sable looked around in desperation, as if hoping a supporter might magically appear and save him. “I don’t know what you mean.” “The first victim, who correlates to your list here, was drug-addicted. The second victim, who also correlates to the list, was mentally ill. The third victim was homeless. Do you get my drift?” Sable suddenly did understand, and he looked horrified. “You can’t think that. . . !” He seemed to grope for words. “Just because . . . no, I can’t believe it!” “Someone is killing people according to your list, very methodically and thoroughly,” said Cage, in his soft and ominous voice. “Is that person you, Mr. Sable?” Sable stared, mouth agape, speechless. “So who is next, Mr. Sable?” continued Cage. “A physically disabled person? Because that would be way too coincidental for me to believe.” “Listen to me. Please listen,” said Sable desperately. “I did not kill those people. I didn’t have anything to do with it, I swear! If some psycho is using my list to kill people, then I’m sorry for that, but it doesn’t mean that I’m involved in it. I swear. I already gave you alibis, didn’t I? So how could I have killed those people?” “You can stop babbling,” said Dinah dryly. However she knew that Edward Sable was correct — he did have alibis for at least the first two murders. “You could still be involved,” said Cage. “Just because you don’t take part in the physical killing, doesn’t mean that you don’t know about the murders and approve of them. That still makes you an accomplice.” If it were possible for Sable to grow paler, he did. He was now as white as a crisply starched hotel sheet. “I swear that I know nothing about these murders,” he said, carefully enunciating each word. “I swear to you.” Cage stood to leave, and his massive frame was even more physically intimidating in the small space. “We’ll be keeping an eye on you,” he told Sable. “I promise.” ****

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A Dinah Harris Mystery The two investigators left the supermarket and decompressed from the tension of the interview in the warm sunlight. Cage flexed his huge shoulders and rolled his neck around, stretching it. “If you thought that was bad,” commented Dinah. “I have a feeling Leonard Marks will be much worse.” “He does seem more radical,” agreed Cage. “Let’s get it over with.” They drove to the apartment of Leonard Marks in Langdon, mentally preparing for another fight. The young student allowed them into his apartment with a sarcastic, “Wonderful to see you!” Dinah glared at his back and reminded herself not to let his arrogant youthfulness upset her. They sat again on the threadbare couch and Leonard trained his black eyes on them. “So what’s it about today?” he asked. “We’re wondering what you know about the murders of a young streetwalking addict, a schizophrenic, and a homeless woman,” said Cage, without preamble. Leonard smiled. “Nothing.” “I believe you mentioned that you aren’t particularly upset at news of these murders,” continued Cage calmly. “I’m not.” Leonard shrugged. “Does your eugenics society advocate violence toward individuals you feel are inferior?” “No. I can’t speak for each member, though.” Dinah and Cage glanced at each other. The vitriol that had spewed from his mouth at their last visit was gone, replaced by a coldly reticent version. “Still got no alibi?” “No, but then you have no evidence linking me to any of those murders.” Leonard looked supremely confident. Cage pulled out the list he’d obtained from the eugenics website that listed all the defective individuals, compiled by Edward Sable. “Have you seen this?” he asked, handing it to the young man. Leonard read it carefully. “Yes, I’ve seen it.” “Slightly coincidental, don’t you think?” Cage said. “Considering the first victim was a drug addict, the second victim was a schizophrenic, and the third victim was homeless.” 180

The Shadowed Mind Leonard shrugged. “I guess. It’s not my article.” “Do you agree with it?” “Yes, I do. There are many scientific studies that support the premise that much of our physical and mental health is predetermined by genetics,” said Leonard. “Including such things as a predisposition to consume alcohol, anxiety, predisposition to contract Alzheimer’s disease and personality disorders, to name a few.” “And what is your remedy once such unfortunate individuals are born?” Cage asked, his own voice cold. Leonard sighed. “That’s the problem. Our politically correct, egalitarian society refuses to believe that some people are born flawed. Our fight is to have such individuals restricted from reproducing.” “I believe this nation was founded on the belief that all men are born equal,” said Cage mildly. “It’s just not true,” said Leonard derisively. “How can a person with an IQ of 85 be considered equal to someone with an IQ of 125?” “Ever spent time in Thailand?” Cage asked casually. Leonard gave several fast blinks. It seemed something had suddenly gotten underneath his skin. For the first time, his ice-cool veneer slipped. “I did,” he admitted. “Much of my research for my master’s degree was done in Chang-Mai.” “Really?” said Cage. “Isn’t that in the north part of Thailand, where the infamous Golden Triangle operated?” Leonard’s eyes darted nervously. “That’s true,” he said. “My research didn’t involve the drug trade. I studied poverty and education opportunities.” “How long were you there?” asked Cage. “Two years.” Leonard bounced his knee compulsively. Cage glanced at Dinah and Leonard didn’t miss it. His knee bounced faster. “Learn anything interesting while you were there?” Leonard narrowed his eyes. “Like what?” Cage spread his hands. “You tell us.” Leonard smirked. “Well, I learned quite a lot about poverty. That’s about it.” “Yet it didn’t soften your stance on helping people living in poverty?” Dinah asked. 181

A Dinah Harris Mystery “Oh,” said Leonard, laughing. “You think I was helping? No, I was studying the correlation between a nation’s wealth and the overall IQ of a nation.” “Let me guess,” Dinah said, with a sigh. “The USA and Europe have the highest IQs, followed by Asia, followed by Africa.” Leonard raised his eyebrows. “That’s it, more or less. Why are you surprised?” “I’m starting to feel as though I’ll never be surprised again,” Dinah replied. Leonard smiled unpleasantly. “Is there anything else? I’ve got to get back to work on my thesis.” Cage stood up and moved his bulk closer to the young man. “I’ll be watching you,” he said, very quietly. “If you so much as sneeze in a way that I don’t like, we’ll be back.” Leonard tried to keep up the facade of calmness. “I don’t have anything to hide.” They stood in intricate stillness, each refusing to be intimidated. Then suddenly, Cage threw up his arm like he was going to strike the younger man. With lightning reflexes, Leonard Marks blocked the strike, seized Detective Cage’s arm, and twisted. It was almost an unconscious move, one that had been practiced thousands of times. All three of them froze. Dinah waited on the edge of razor wire for the violence to continue. She could see Cage’s gun in its holster and wondered if she could get to it quickly. Leonard Marks seemed to suddenly understand that he’d been set up, and that Cage had gotten from him exactly what he wanted. Marks let go and retreated while Cage appraised him with a small smile. “We’ll be in touch,” promised Cage, as he and Dinah moved toward the front door. “Look forward to it!” Leonard answered as they walked down the hallway. “Wonder where he learned that move?” Cage murmured, almost to himself. “Chang Mai?” Dinah guessed. Both thinking hard, they lapsed into silence. 182

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As they both climbed into the car, Dinah said, “Do you mind if I call someone on your speaker phone?” The detective shrugged. “Go ahead. Who is it?” “I happen to know someone who is an expert in the field of eugenics,” said Dinah. “But with an opposing view to Leonard Marks. I want to square a few things away.” Cage shrugged again and started the car while Dinah dialed. When Andy Coleman answered, he sounded harried. “Hey, Dinah, what’s up?” “Are you free to talk?” Dinah asked. “You sound a bit stressed.” “Just a security threat down here,” he said. “Another day in a fallen world.” Cage raised an eyebrow at Dinah quizzically. “But I’ve always got time to answer your questions, Dinah,” Andy continued. Dinah outlined their conversations with both Edward Sable and Leonard Marks, including the discussions she and Cage had held with Dr. Sharp. There was silence while Andy thought. Finally, he said, “So many topics, so little time. I’ve already explained the origin of variation in human beings to you, so suffice it to say that I don’t believe the human race is evolving. As you know, I believe that God created human beings in His image, and that the DNA of Adam and Eve would have been perfect. We’ve been going downhill ever since, as I explained to you regarding genetic mutations. And I think it’s important to point out that the only reason we have circumstances such as mental illness, physical disability, drug addiction, poverty, and so forth is because of the presence of sin in the world.” “Are you saying that people suffer these circumstances because they have done something wrong and deserve it?” Cage asked, a frown forming on his face. “Yes and no. I’m not talking about specific sin in this instance, even though we all sin every day, but all of humanity is responsible for sin, even if we don’t want to accept it,” replied Andy. “What I’m saying is that we live in a fallen world: a place ruined by the effects of sin. The Bible tells us that the whole of creation groans in pain because of sin, 183

A Dinah Harris Mystery and so we see the problems that I mentioned. The difference between how a Christian and an atheistic evolutionist think about these issues is quite pronounced. Christians realize that our world is imperfect and that sin has meant tragic circumstances can befall anyone at any time. However, our hope rests in the sacrifice of Jesus Christ on the Cross, the perfect solution to the problem; and we look forward to a sinfree existence with God when we die. Atheistic evolutionists have no such hope, and thus must look to answer these problems themselves. Unfortunately, because they are so determined that the human race must evolve, their solutions require the sacrifice of the weak, vulnerable, poor, and dispossessed. To put it another way, human progress relies on the survival of the fittest. This is basically how eugenics fits into their way of thinking.” “So you explained last time that Christians believe human life to be of great value,” said Dinah, “even if such life is less than perfect mentally or physically. But what about the racial arguments? It would seem that since Darwin’s time, specific races of people have been targeted as being less important or less worthy.” “Absolutely. Let me start by saying that the term ‘race’ really didn’t figure into popular speech until Darwin’s Origin of the Species. Before that, it was used to classify people into nations really, by saying ‘the English race’ or the ‘Irish race.’ Now we understand the meaning to refer to the physical characteristics of a person, such as the ‘Caucasian race’ or the ‘Asian race.’ ” Andy chuckled. “I have always said that there is only one race — the human race to which all human beings belong, regardless of the shade of their skin, the shape of their eyes, or the language they speak. Of course, the Bible, in the Book of Acts, specifically says that humans are all of one blood, which is pretty clear that there is no room for racism in Christianity.” There was a rustling noise for a few moments, and then Andy said, “Sorry, I was just eating a donut. I haven’t had lunch yet. So in the late 19th century and early 20th century, evolutionists believed Africans to be less evolved than Europeans, for example. They were thought to be closer to their ape-like ancestors in the chain of evolution and, accordingly, were treated horrendously. As the understanding of genetics deepened, this viewpoint no longer had any credibility. We now know that there is more genetic variability within any people group than 184

The Shadowed Mind there is between any people group. Again, this is a prime example of science confirming the biblical account of different people groups.” “How does the Bible explain the different people groups?” Dinah asked. “It all goes back to the Tower of Babel,” explained Andy. “At the time, human beings were living in the same geographical area and had decided to build an enormous tower, for reasons of both pride and unity. However, God had commanded Noah and his family after the Flood to fill the earth, and so the construction of the tower was in disobedience to God’s commands. God punished this rebellion by giving each family group a different language, so that they couldn’t understand each other. As a result, each family group went in a different direction and eventually became scattered over the earth. Because these family groups no longer freely mixed, the gene pools began to split. Over time, certain characteristics became more common in each family group. “Now, these family groups were isolated from each other for a long time — a couple thousand years. Certain features, such as eye shape, nose shape, hair color, and so on would have become more prominent because the gene pool was isolated.” Andy paused and a rustling noise came from the phone as he presumably ate another donut. “I think you’ll find this interesting: did you know that European royal genealogies all begin with a name that is a close derivative of Noah? People groups such as the Romans, Goths, Spanish, Saxons, and Britons all have genealogies that can be traced back to Noah. Ultimately, though, all of us are descendants of Adam and Eve.” “Hey, can I ask you something?” interjected Cage. “I’m not really a believer, but I did go to church when I was a kid, and there’s something that’s bugged me ever since.” “Sure, go ahead.” They heard Andy demolish another donut. “So I learned in Sunday school about Adam and Eve,” said Cage. “But if that’s really true, then the children of Adam and Eve would have had to marry each other, wouldn’t they? And have children with each other?” “You are quite correct, which sounds pretty disgusting when you apply our biased 21st-century understanding to it. We can all agree 185

A Dinah Harris Mystery that marriage between brothers and sisters today is morally and biologically wrong, and one of the major biological reasons is because of the increased risk of birth defects and genetic mutations due to the closeness of the parent’s genes. However, remember that I mentioned Adam and Eve were created with perfect DNA? It is thought that Adam and Eve had about 30 sons and 20 daughters, although the Bible doesn’t specify. Although sin had entered the world, the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve would have inherited almost perfect DNA. With each generation, mutations would increase over time and this is why God, some 2,500 years later, forbade the marriage of close relatives. But at the time of Adam’s children, such biological problems weren’t an issue.” Cage nodded to himself. “I see. Thanks.” “I have to go,” said Andy. “I’ve got a meeting. But you call if you have any more questions, okay?” They hung up, and Cage raised his eyebrows at Dinah. “Interesting,” he said, and despite Dinah’s efforts to have Cage extrapolate on what he meant, she had no luck. ****

The emergency meeting was held at the bunker that evening, and Senator David Winters was invited. Actually, invited was too nice a word — he’d received instructions to be there. The group was holding talks about crises to two fronts: the murder investigation and the press conference. Senator Jerry Devine had held a press conference the previous evening. He had bellowed his message loud and clear: the liberals were hiding something in their Health Reform Bill and proof of this was Senator Winters’ motion to waive a full reading of the bill in the Senate. The Movement was starting to feel uneasy. At any moment, the assisted suicide provision would be discovered and they would have to start again. Senator Winters drove his own Jaguar to the meeting, silently seething to himself the whole way. He was fed up to the teeth with the Movement but he needed their funds. A tilt at the presidency wasn’t possible without them. When he arrived at the bunker, he arranged his features in the pleasant, approachable expression he used when he was talking to 186

The Shadowed Mind constituents, the media or supporters, and any other groups of people he found tiresome, stupid, and irritating. The mood inside the cabin was tense. Edward Sable strode to greet him and said tersely, “We need to talk.” “Pour me a drink and we will,” replied the Senator, fixing the other man a steely glare. He refused to be intimidated by this bunch of losers. “Did you see the press conference?” one of the women asked shrilly. “Senator Devine will have his staff go through the bill and the media will have a field day!” “Relax,” said Senator Winters, accepting the drink from Sable. He took a big gulp of second-rate bourbon. “Senator Devine is a blowhard, and everyone knows it. They’ll think he’s going on about it because he’s a conservative.” Senator Winters wished he himself believed that. Inside, he wasn’t convinced that this would be the case. “We need this provision to be passed,” said Edward Sable urgently. “Our support of you is dependent upon that.” “I know that,” said Senator Winters irritably. “I have a few options up my sleeve to fast track the bill.” “Like what?” demanded Sable. Senator Winters ground his teeth. “My colleagues and I will implement reconciliation.” “What does that mean? It doesn’t sound good,” someone complained. “That’s because you know nothing about it,” snapped Senator Winters. “Reconciliation is a Senate rule that requires only 50 votes instead of 60. You probably don’t realize that we need a few conservatives on our side to pass the bill with 60 votes. If we need only 50 votes, my liberal colleagues have the numbers. You following so far?” He couldn’t keep the disdain from his tone. He was met with several nods, but mostly with uncomprehending eyes. He continued anyway. “To put it simply, the process of reconciliation can only be used on bills that concern budgetary items or taxation items. The Health Reform Bill includes lots of provisions that will affect the budget, and we’ll attach our provision to the budgetary ones,” he explained, clenching his jaw with the effort of being patient. “We only need 50 187

A Dinah Harris Mystery votes to pass those portions of the bill. The rest of the bill is not our problem.” “I thought you could only use reconciliation to reduce the federal deficit,” piped up someone at the back of the room, probably a firstyear law student. Senator Winters took an aggressive swig of bourbon. “Technically, that’s true,” he conceded. “But the argument is that the Health Care Reform Bill will ultimately reduce the deficit because it will control spending on healthcare.” “Is that likely to get through?” Sable asked dubiously. “Look, the previous government did it a number of times,” said Senator Winters. “Specifically, they did it to hammer through tax cuts in 2001 and 2003. It’s not unheard of, and given the current president’s desire to radically change health care, it won’t be unexpected. The conservatives might not like it, but they’ve done it themselves. So they can’t really complain too hard.” “So if you get the 50 votes, it’s definitely passed?” Sable asked. “We have the majority in the Senate; we’ll get the 50 votes. The ultimate decision is made by the Senate parliamentarian,” said Winters. When he saw Sable draw a breath to protest, he added swiftly, “You don’t need to worry about that. The Senate parliamentarian will make a decision favorable to me.” “Why is this so complex?” whined a woman in the audience. Winters glared in her general direction. “Do you realize what it is you’re trying to do? Changing social policy in this country is no mean feat. Particularly when we’re talking about controversial issues that tend to polarize a nation.” “What if this Senator Devine finds out what you’re doing? Won’t he just go back to the media and reveal everything?” the same woman asked. “As I’ve already said,” Winters said, making an inhuman effort to be patient, “the conservatives have already done it, which I’ll point out if Devine makes any trouble. Most Americans want health care reform, one way or the other. If Senator Devine kicks up a fuss, it’ll look like he doesn’t want the health care system fixed. That’ll look bad to his constituents, and that’s all he really cares about.” “All right, if you’re sure,” Sable said, mostly to placate his fellow members. 188

The Shadowed Mind “You’ll have to trust me,” Winters said unpleasantly. “I’m a senator.” Someone muttered something under his or her breath. Winters stared at his hands and resolved to set fire to the bunker during one of the Movement’s meetings and get rid of all these idiots he was forced to deal with. First, he’d collect his money. Then, perhaps some gasoline and some matches.

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etective Samson Cage didn’t ring Dinah the next morning until almost eleven o’clock. In the meantime, Dinah used her computer to research polyurethane, and soon realized it was a monumental task. Polyurethane was used in almost everything, had many different forms and uses, and millions of manufacturers, distributors, and retailers. In the end, she only felt dejected. Trying to find a killer by using a polyurethane flake would be like the literal needle in the haystack. When she saw Cage calling, she answered, “Hello?” “We’ve got another body,” said the detective tersely. Dinah felt her senses immediately sharpen. “Where?” “Forest Glen Palliative Care Home.” Dinah was momentarily confused. “Sorry?” 190

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“Can you meet me there? It’s a little different to the other cases.” Cage sounded like he was already in his car, speeding toward the latest crime scene. Dinah climbed behind the wheel in record time and as she sped toward the palliative care facility, her thoughts raced. How did this killer continually leave virtually no clues for them to find, at least none that weren’t part of his creepy message? How did he manage to build trust so easily with his victims, in only a matter of hours and days? Dinah hit the steering wheel in frustration, veering out from behind an irritatingly slow vehicle and sped past. Why did everyone have to drive so slowly? She almost yelled out loud when the car in front stopped suddenly at a yellow light instead of speeding through, like she would have done. Dinah slammed on the brakes and pounded the wheel angrily. The Forest Glen Palliative Care Home was awash with red and blue police lights, yellow crime scene tape, and uniformed police officers directing the increasing mass of onlookers. It was the first crime scene in the whole investigation that had attracted such a crowd, thought Dinah wryly. Cage found her in the throng and propelled her into the home, trying to keep her away from any journalist who might recognize her. The quiet of the building was a relief, after the chaos surrounding the home. “So what happened?” she asked. “The victim was a young man with Huntington’s disease,” began Cage. “Wait a minute. A physically disabled person?” asked Dinah, thinking of Edward Sable’s list of undesirable people. If the killer was following Sable’s list, a physically disabled person would have been his next hit. A coincidence like that was too massive to ignore. “Right,” said Cage, directing her down a series of corridors until they arrived at the facility’s library. “His name was William Atwood, white, late-thirties. The disease was reasonably advanced, but he still had quite good communication skills.” Dinah looked at the scene carefully, knowing that first impressions were important. The young man in the motorized wheelchair 191

A Dinah Harris Mystery was slumped. But for the grey pallor of his skin, he might have been sleeping. Dinah could see the wasted limbs of the young man and felt a surge of anger that someone would commit an act of violence against someone so frail. Then she looked at the neck and realized that there was no loll. “Cage,” she said. “It doesn’t look like his neck was broken.” Cage pointed to the glass-topped lamp table next to the wheelchair. “I think that’s the murder weapon,” he said. Dinah followed his gesture and saw a whisky bottle, nearly empty, and the residue of some white powder on the glass. Dinah frowned. “For a killer who has been so consistent and methodical, this seems to be way out of character,” she said. “Are we sure it’s the same guy?” Cage gave her something in a plastic evidence bag. It was a generic sympathy card, identical to the ones left on the bodies of Benjamin Steffan and Ashleigh Colter. It was a detail only the killer would know; details of the cards and their messages had not been released by the police department. With her gloved hands, Dinah opened the card and read: What nature does blindly, slowly, and ruthlessly, man may do providently, quickly, and kindly. As it lies within his power, so it becomes his duty to work in that direction. Dinah glanced up at Cage. “He sees this as a mercy killing?” “I’ve been thinking,” said the detective. “It is of course possible that the killer forced Billy to drink the alcohol, presumably laced with a poison or drug. . . .” Dinah grimaced, thinking of the attempt on her own life during the Smithsonian case using that exact method. “There would have to have been some physical force used, even on a man as physically incapacitated as Billy,” continued Cage. “But there appears to be none, at least not superficially. I wonder if Billy agreed to the plan.” “Why would he do that?” Dinah asked. Cage shrugged. “Because he hated what he had become? I don’t know. I guess the autopsy will confirm my theory or not.” 192

The Shadowed Mind Dinah nodded, thinking hard. “So what if the killer discovered he didn’t need to murder Billy? What if he discovered that Billy was quite happy to entertain the thought of suicide, but didn’t have the means? It doesn’t reduce the intensity of the killer’s message. If he’s a believer in eugenics, he’s probably also a believer in euthanasia.” Cage agreed. “That’s what I’m thinking. In fact, he may even be an advocate of forced euthanasia. Only the killer knows about these cards and their messages. But how does the killer manage to build enough trust to even broach the subject?” The two investigators lapsed into silence. “So the killer and Billy weren’t disturbed in this room?” Dinah asked, finally. “No, the nurse in charge, Paige Wheeler, says that Billy had received a visitor over the past few days, every evening.” Cage consulted his notebook. “Youngish man, probably early thirties, about six foot, brown hair. She said he was a pleasant man, wanted to volunteer there because he’d watched his sister die of breast cancer and wanted to provide some companionship to someone in her honor.” “He was quite specific about finding one person to spend time with?” Dinah asked. “Right. He chose Billy, because he didn’t have many visitors, and very little in the way of family.” Dinah pursed her lips. “It would also make it easier to carry out his plan — whether that was murder or assisted suicide — because there was a low chance of an unexpected visit from friends or family.” Cage raised his eyebrows. “That’s true. So this visitor met with Billy every evening in the library, read him books, watched sports, listened to music, and talked. The nurses left them alone. One of them questioned Billy after the first visit to make sure he was comfortable with his visitor. He seemed to enjoy the company, but more so, the visitor brought alcohol, which is forbidden here.” “The nurses knew he was bringing alcohol?” Dinah asked. “They turned a blind eye,” said Cage. “Billy wasn’t consuming enough to compromise his condition, so they let him.” He paused. “Until now, of course.” Dinah sighed and glanced over at the slumped figure of Billy Atwood. The crime scene technicians were gathering up the white powder, the 193

A Dinah Harris Mystery whisky bottle, and other physical evidence, while staff from the morgue set about the task of removing Billy’s body from the wheelchair. “Well, I know one thing,” said Cage, snapping his notebook shut. “What’s that?” Dinah asked. “Edward Sable is in some trouble.” ****

The two investigators left the home and stood in the bright sunlight outside, the sun beating down on them from a flawless sky. “Okay,” Cage said. “I want to wait for the autopsy before we talk to Edward Sable again, so we know whether it was more likely to be murder or assisted suicide.” “I agree,” Dinah said. “So in the meantime, I want to pay a visit to this guy.” Cage showed her the scrap of paper on which Japanese karate master Lawrence Tetyaki had written the name and location of a rogue master who had been teaching maneuvers illegal in competition. It meant venturing into the more dangerous neighborhoods east of the city, toward Anacostia, but Dinah had once spent much of her professional time there. In her glory days at the FBI, she’d been a negotiator using her skills to extract ranking members out of the gangs. Since her alcoholism and grief had led to the death of a gang member whom she’d arranged to extract then forgotten to arrange a safety plan for, she hadn’t ventured back into that section of the city. However, the sheer size of Samson Cage, together with his gun in the shoulder holster, gave her a measure of comfort. Dinah followed Cage in her car, trying to keep her impatience at his methodical driving style under control. She couldn’t understand how someone could stand to drive a car so slowly. She took several deep breaths and concentrated on the music playing on the radio to calm down. As with many martial arts venues in the city, this one was a nondescript warehouse covered in graffiti. Occasionally, a person would surface on the street, but otherwise the neighborhood was empty and somehow menacing. At the metal roller door, Cage raised his fist and pounded on it. It didn’t take long for the door to be raised by a scowling man who 194

The Shadowed Mind couldn’t have been more than five foot five. He had long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, almond-shaped eyes, wiry musculature, and bronze skin. He glared at them. “What?” he demanded rudely. “Are you Ricky Srisai?” Cage asked, holding up his badge. The glare didn’t waver. “Yeah, so what?” Cage leaned over him. “You don’t want to do this on the street, brother.” Grudgingly, Ricky Srisai turned and walked into the warehouse, leaving Cage and Dinah to let themselves in. Once inside, they stood in a studio that was a crude imitation of Tetyaki’s. It was quiet and empty at the moment, apart from hanging boxing bags, boxing gloves, swords, clubs, skipping ropes, and other training gear. “Nice place you’ve got here,” Cage said, casually sarcastic. I must be rubbing off on him, thought Dinah, hiding a grin. “What do you want?” Srisai snapped. “I’ve heard you’re running a bit of an underground operation here,” Cage said. “I hear you’re teaching all kinds of illegal moves.” Srisai snorted contemptuously. “They’re only illegal in the world of competition. That doesn’t concern the cops.” “I’ll be the judge of that,” retorted Cage. He moved closer to the other man, to intimidate him with his size. “Are you teaching moves that can kill?” Srisai stood his ground. “All martial arts have moves that can kill.” “Are you teaching moves that are specifically designed to kill?” Cage rephrased. “I teach moves specifically designed for self-defense,” Srisai said in a mocking tone. “They have the potential to kill.” “Why do you teach techniques that are illegal in competition?” Cage asked, moving closer. Srisai spread one arm expansively. “Open your eyes. This is a nasty part of the city. I teach moves that my students can use if their lives are threatened. That happens on a fairly regular basis around here.” Cage started to speak, but Srisai hadn’t finished. “This isn’t about some sissy competition. This is life and death on these streets. My students at least have a chance to defend themselves against an aggressor 195

A Dinah Harris Mystery who is armed, or a number or aggressors, or an aggressor who is much larger.” He said the last part pointedly. There was silence for several moments. Dinah knew that Ricky Srisai couldn’t be the killer — he was not even close to six feet tall, and he was Asian. But one of his students might have learned the neck torsion method right in this studio. “Do you teach a technique designed to twist and break a neck?” Cage asked, moving still closer. Srisai smiled. “I might.” “Where did you learn it?” “Thai Royal Military,” said Srisai proudly. “You don’t want to mess with those dudes.” “You know all your students well?” Cage asked, moving still closer. Srisai still didn’t budge. “Yeah. I know them.” “So you got a student who was particularly taken with this neck torsion maneuver?” Cage asked. Srisai hesitated for only a millisecond but it was enough. “No.” “Who?” insisted Cage. “There was someone, wasn’t there?” “No.” Srisai’s face became stony again. “Can’t help you, Detective.” “This person,” said Cage quietly, “is responsible for using this torsion technique to murder a 17-year-old girl, a young man with schizophrenia, and a frail homeless woman. This person is not using your techniques for self-defense on the mean streets, Mr. Srisai. Are you happy to learn one of your students may be using what they’ve learned here to murder helpless and vulnerable victims?” Srisai’s face darkened. “Of course not. I can vouch for my students. Someone else must have taught your murderer.” “If I find out differently,” said Cage ominously. “I will do everything in my power to destroy this studio, do you understand?” “Perfectly,” snapped Srisai. “Do you realize, Detective, that I could have you disarmed, facedown, and facing death in less than three seconds?” The two men, so incongruous in size, stood still and silent, staring at each for several moments. “I hope, for your sake, that the murderer didn’t come from this studio,” said Cage eventually. “Otherwise, I’m sure I’ll find a way to make you criminally culpable.” 196

The Shadowed Mind “Have a nice day, Detective,” said Srisai unpleasantly. ****

Ella Barnett waited until her father was seated comfortably in front of the television with a cup of tea before she went upstairs to her room and found the book she’d found him crying over in the attic. It was called The Lost Boys and the blurb on the back cover promised a disturbing true story. She positioned herself in a chair where she could still see her father. She opened the archaic cover and began reading the autobiography. The first chapter began with the authors’ early lives. Both had vague memories of their own families, but had lost their parents at an early age. Peter Kilpatrick’s parents had perished in a house fire; he and his younger sister had been rescued by the fire department. He had been about six at the time. He had no relatives to care for him, so he and his sister were separated and each sent to an orphanage. Henry Black had been in a car accident at the age of seven, which claimed the lives of his parents and two older brothers. Similarly, he had no other relatives to care for him and was sent to an orphanage. The boys met at the Albans Orphanage Asylum, a state-run facility on the northeast outskirts of Washington, DC. Their surroundings were foreign and austere, and when they became roommates, they became good friends. Ella instantly felt compassion for these two young boys, grieving for their families and sent to a place completely unfamiliar to them. They weren’t allowed to keep any photos or mementos of their old lives. They were not offered therapy or counseling. The wisdom of the day was that the sooner the boys forgot about their families, the better. Their lives fell into a strict routine. They were up at five o’clock, when they were required to complete chores until six, whereupon they would have breakfast and a shower. School classes ran from seven until four, with a lunch break at noon. More chores and homework were to be completed between four and six p.m. Dinner was served at six thirty and lights were out at eight thirty. Sometimes the boys were allowed to watch television or play games after dinner. Ella felt her compassion grow as she continued reading. There seemed to be little caring human interaction. The boys were never 197

A Dinah Harris Mystery shown any love, empathy, or understanding. They were expected to follow the rules and keep noise to a minimum. Their emotional needs were completely ignored. It was like they had been sent to a prison for doing nothing more than having the misfortune of losing their parents. Ella put the book down and tried to imagine what it would have been like to have a loving family ripped from you in a moment, then sent to live with strangers who didn’t care if you were upset, griefstricken, or lonely. She felt tears spring to her eyes just thinking about it. Who had been there to kiss a scraped knee, to care for a bruised heart, to listen to a wounded ego? Who had been there with open, welcoming arms and a warm smile? Who had been there to protect and defend each boy from the cold, harsh realities of the world? Who had taught them how to navigate the treacherous pathways and tributaries of life? Ella decided she couldn’t take much more of the book at the moment. It would be a story told in small doses. She had a feeling that it would only get worse the more she read of it. She looked over to check on John Barnett and saw that he’d fallen asleep. He had been up late the night before, crying over this book in the attic and was exhausted. Ella pursed her lips as she looked at him. Why had this book upset him so? Then something clicked. Peter and Henry were the authors of this book. Who had her father been obsessed with and agitated over the past few months? Peter and Henry! She recalled the episode in the supermarket where he’d found a boy whose name he’d been certain was Peter. Then there had been the incident in front of the house in her street, where her father had been yelling for Peter and Henry to come out. Both instances had caused a great emotional response in John Barnett. But what was the connection between her kind, gentle father and these two lost boys? What had happened that could cause such an outpouring of emotion from the normally calm, staid John? Ella thought about her childhood and tried to remember any occasion where their family had come into contact with Peter, Henry, or their families. She couldn’t think of anything, unless it had always been a secret her father had kept. Yet it was so out of character for her father 198

The Shadowed Mind to be secretive or deceptive that Ella couldn’t imagine the magnitude of the secret he could be keeping. Why was his mind stuck on these two boys, who would forever be elementary school age in his deteriorating memory? And why was John Barnett convinced that she would despise him if she found out the reasons behind these emotional outbursts? ****

Following the tense combativeness of their conversation with Srisai, both investigators felt the need to decompress. However, the case marched on, and they couldn’t afford to relax. Cage phoned Dr. Nelson Sharp from the car, asking if they could again visit to discuss the latest quote found on the body of Billy Atwood. The professor agreed, and Cage turned the car toward Georgetown University. Dr. Sharp waited for them in his trendy office. Today he was dressed down, in skinny jeans and a tight-fitting polo shirt. Dinah couldn’t remember having professors who were as cool and good-looking when she was in college. Cage wasted no time, giving the professor the quote found on Billy Atwood’s body. Dr. Sharp read it and nodded. “Yeah, this is a pretty famous quote,” he said. “The founder of eugenics, Francis Galton, is responsible for this. I think he said it in the early part of the 20th century.” He pulled off his glasses for a moment. “Under what circumstances did you find this quote?” Without giving away too many details of the case, Cage gave him a brief rundown. Dr. Sharp nodded. “Well, that makes sense,” he said. “This quote is often quoted by right-to-die advocates. Eugenicists particularly believe this to be true.” “It appears to be very pro-euthanasia,” Dinah agreed. “However, it seems to me that it doesn’t talk about allowing the sick, disabled, or dying to do it themselves; rather it seems to imply that we should do it to them.” Dr. Sharp smiled at Dinah. “That’s very perceptive. Of course, eugenicists, by and large, are pro-euthanasia, but they take it a step further. They do believe that society should get rid of the defectives rather than waiting for nature to take its course. They believe that 199

A Dinah Harris Mystery euthanasia should in many cases be involuntary. After all, not every person with a terminal or degenerative disease wants to commit suicide. Many eugenicists would prefer not to discuss it at all, and instead make it a requirement of the society in which we live.” “That would include a young man with Huntington’s disease?” Cage asked grimly. “Most certainly. You may remember a philosopher and eugenicist named Haeckel I mentioned last time you were here? He was the most famous Darwinist of his time. He supported the ancient Spartan practice of killing weak and sickly infants, and in one of his later works, he argued in favor of killing infants with congenital disabilities. He wrote that an infant with a mental or physical handicap ought to be killed with a dose of morphine or cyanide, which would free the baby’s relatives from the burden of a long, worthless, and painful existence.” Dr. Sharp shook his head. “His words, not mine.” Dinah was speechless with horror. “Also, he quite vociferously supported assisted suicide,” continued Dr. Sharp. “He called it self-redemption, arguing that we have the duty to end the suffering of fellow humans, just as we do for animals, from which we are no different. Most notably, he advocated killing people who suffered from mental illness, leprosy, cancer patients, and others with incurable illnesses. He suggested society could save much pain and money by administering an overdose of morphine. Notice I used the word ‘killing,’ because that’s precisely what he suggested. He believed society should proactively kill those considered to be a waste of time and money. I’m not just talking about allowing those who want to die the means to do it. Rather, he suggested society get rid of them without any consultation with the victims whatsoever.” “Were these views actually supported?” Cage asked. “Certainly not all of the Darwinists and eugenicists of the day agreed with him,” replied Dr. Sharp. “A vast majority of those who publicly pressed for abortion, infanticide, and euthanasia were fervently devoted to the Darwinist ideal, and therefore secretly supported the more extreme ideas of Haeckel — who as I mentioned was a famous Darwinist. A Nobel Prize–winning chemist by the name of Wolfsdorf suggested that caring for suffering family members is economically damaging and a waste of energy. Later, a female socialist named Oda 200

The Shadowed Mind Olberg agreed that society had the right to eliminate physical or moral sources of infection that might hinder its progress. She argued, in essence, that involuntary euthanasia became an act of self-defense and therefore quite necessary. She suggested that society stop looking at it as murder, and rather as an act of collective good.” “I can just imagine what they’d have thought of a palliative care home,” murmured Cage, shaking his head. Dr. Sharp agreed. “In their eyes, such a facility would be a colossal waste of money and resources. They would argue that the residents were going to die anyway — in many cases, a lingering and painful death. They would suggest that killing them sooner would be more merciful, but also more economical. Don’t forget, this might sound progressive in theory, but those suffering terminal and degenerative illnesses weren’t asked for their opinion or given an option.” “Does it stop there?” Dinah asked, actually feeling sick. “No. The idea of involuntary euthanasia was extended to include moral characteristics,” said Dr. Sharp. “At the time, morality was thought to be hereditary. Therefore, parents who displayed attributes such as selfishness, laziness, and dishonesty were likely to produce children who displayed the same characteristics. Thus, it was suggested that criminals ought to be eliminated by way of capital punishment, to prevent offenders from reproducing. It came to be that capital punishment was discussed for not just those who killed human beings, but those who displayed any sort of criminal behavior.” “So what do you think the message might have been behind this quote being left on the body of a young man suffering from Huntington’s disease?” Cage asked. “You haven’t told me whether the death of this young man was murder or assisted suicide,” said Dr. Sharp, “but a eugenicist wouldn’t think there is much of a difference. I would think the message behind it would be that society has a duty to eliminate people in Billy’s situation, under the guise of kindness and compassion, of course.” “What do modern-day eugenicists believe?” Cage asked. “On the surface,” replied Dr. Sharp, “they advocate a liberal agenda that is already mainstream — causes such as abortion, euthanasia, and selective reproduction. Privately, many of them also continue to support involuntary sterilization, involuntary euthanasia, restriction 201

A Dinah Harris Mystery of immigration, and so on. You must remember that in order to be a eugenicist, you must also be an ardent believer in evolution. Eugenics is primarily concerned with the positive evolution of the human race. They also uphold ideals renouncing the sanctity of life, the equality of all men and women, and the concept of the human soul, all of which are JudeoChristian in origin.” “Would it be feasible to think they might privately support the murder of individuals they consider to be defective?” Cage inquired. “If they believed it would be advancing the human race?” “In the mind of a eugenicist, there isn’t a difference between involuntary euthanasia and murder,” said Dr. Sharp. “It’s about the collective health of society. Individual rights pale in comparison, unless you happen to be young, fit, healthy, and rich.” “Do you think a eugenics group would support a member who is committing murder?” Cage asked. Dr. Sharp inclined his head while he considered the question. “I don’t know,” he said, finally. “It depends on the extremism of the group. Theoretically, they could, if the murders correlate to their beliefs. Practically, whether they would is a different matter.” Dinah knew Cage was thinking of Edward Sable, and whether he was supported by the group he led. Could a conspiracy be so large? Edward Sable could, on the other hand, be a lone wolf, practicing his beliefs literally. After all, not every eugenicist in history had been comfortable with violence. Dinah sighed in frustration. Their evidence pointing to Edward Sable was circumstantial at best and coincidental at worst. How was it that the more they learned about the killer, the further they seemed to be from catching him?

202

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he killer arrived home from work in the late evening, his thoughts already turning to his next endeavor. He was a man of discipline, though, and although he wanted to begin his next task, his routine called for a training session. He completed a training session every day. Every other day he would run for ten miles and fine tune his Muay Thai skills with the punching bag, viciously assaulting it with a variety of chops, punches, kicks, and strikes. The alternate day he would spend an hour doing weight training and muscle conditioning. He did so not with the aim to achieve bulk, but to maintain strength and power. Twice a week he would visit his Muay Thai instructor for a private, one-on-one hourlong session. 204

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Today, it was the run and punching bag. With single-minded focus, he concentrated on his training. He was supremely fit and completed the run barely breaking a sweat. The punching bag absorbed a punishing flurry of kicks and punches. Once he’d finished, he drank a protein shake and took a shower. Finally, he sat down at his desk in his study and opened the Internet browser on his computer. He quickly typed the name Dinah Harris in the Google search engine. A number of entries, posted in the majority by the news media, came up in the search results. The killer tried to sort them into some semblance of order chronologically and began reading. He discovered that during her last case, the Smithsonian case, she’d been caught by a journalist in one instance arriving at a crime scene drunk, and on another occasion passing out in her car in the city morgue parking lot. Of these episodes, photos had been published in addition to other photos of her buying bottles of alcohol on a chilly winter night despite being assigned to an active case. The accompanying articles were judgmental, to say the least. But all of them came to the same conclusion: Dinah Harris was an alcoholic. The killer grinned a predatory smile to himself and continued to read. He found that the downward spiral of Dinah Harris began upon the sudden deaths of her husband and son in a car accident. She’d gone back to work soon afterward to her job in the Violent Crimes/ Violent Gangs department. She’d been a head negotiator extracting high-ranking gang members into witness protection. She’d arranged to meet a young male gang member and take him to a protective safe house. The meeting had not gone ahead for reasons unknown to the journalist, and the young man had paid for her mistake with his life; his gang seeking revenge for his betrayal. An impressive FBI cover-up had whirred into action over the murder, refusing the release of any further details about why Dinah Harris had failed the young man. Speculation was rife that she had been drinking heavily at the time. 205

A Dinah Harris Mystery She had been demoted to a teaching and advisory role before she’d caught the Smithsonian case. Prior to the problem in the violent gangs unit, Dinah Harris had been a bona fide FBI star. Apparently she’d found her calling negotiating with street-hardened young thugs for their information and inside secrets, in return for safety and redemption from the gang life. Her success rates were spectacular, and she’d managed to single-handedly inflict damage on many of the city’s gangs. There were many news media articles relating to the arrests and convictions of violent gang leaders, attributed to Dinah Harris’s ability to coax secrets out of the most unlikely sources. In one rare instance, she’d given a quote to a television reporter, who’d asked her the secret to her success. Dinah had replied, “I don’t see them as hopeless, incorrigible animals who ought to be tossed away by society as no more than garbage. I see them as lost, lonely young men who have only ever wanted to feel like they belong to someone and something.” The killer almost laughed out loud. Dinah Harris, the crusader. She’d been on a mission to save gang members from themselves. And look what had happened. An ugly turn of fate, her family’s lives suddenly snuffed out, and the crusader became human wreckage herself. The killer sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and wondered if it could be any more perfect. An alcoholic easily made the list of defective individuals, and Dinah Harris certainly fit the bill ideally. To make it even better, she was one of the investigators trying to track him down. What sort of message would it send if he could kill — literally — two birds with one stone: an investigator hoping to put him in prison, and an alcoholic who was truly wasting space on this planet? He searched through his materials, searching for something that would describe his next victim. He found it several minutes later. It was a copy of legislation passed under Nazi Germany in 1933. It was titled Eugenics in the Service of Public Welfare. The killer found a marker and highlighted the section of the legislation that he particularly liked: the prevention of progeny with hereditary defects in cases of congenital mental defects, schizophrenia, manic-depressive psychosis, 206

The Shadowed Mind hereditary epilepsy, and severe alcoholism. The final two words, the killer circled in black. A thought struck him. So far, he’d been leaving his messages on dead bodies. What if he sent this directly to Dinah Harris now, before he killed her? The killer smiled and found an envelope. ****

Dr. Gene Schlabach again remained alone at the city morgue, working late on the autopsy of Billy Atwood. He glanced up from his work to acknowledge Dinah and Samson Cage. Billy’s body seemed tiny and almost childlike on the steel table. The extent of his degenerative illness was obvious and it caused a wave of anger and sadness to wash over Dinah. “I’m nearly done here,” he said quietly. Cage and Dinah waited as Dr. Schlabach neatly and precisely finished the autopsy, until he broke the silence. “This is just tragic,” he said, shaking his head. “I believe he is related to your other murders?” “Yes,” said Detective Cage. “We think so at this point.” “As you can probably see,” said Dr. Schlabach. “He was suffering from Huntington’s disease. He was probably at the midpoint of the illness. He would have suffered reasonable muscle wastage and loss of strength.” “He was found in a motorized wheelchair,” said Cage. “Okay, that makes sense,” said Dr. Schlabach. “He would have had limited function in his arms and hands. That’s what makes it so hard to believe that he was victimized.” “To be honest, we’re not sure if he was a willing participant or not,” said Cage. “As far as my limited knowledge goes, it doesn’t look like he was murdered violently like our other victims, but the message left on his body leaves us in no doubt that it’s the same killer.” Dr. Schlabach nodded. “We’ll have to wait for toxicology results, but I can give you some preliminary findings. There was no indication of violence anywhere on Billy’s body, not even any signs of coercion. Did you find a glass or bottle nearby with alcohol in it?” “Yeah, we found whisky, with some crushed white powder residue,” said Cage. 207

A Dinah Harris Mystery “There was definitely an alcoholic odor about the body when he came in,” said Dr. Schlabach. “So my first guess would be that Billy died of an overdose of alcohol and a drug of some kind — I would say a depressant of some kind.” “Why do you think it’s a depressant?” Dinah asked. “Mixing depressant drugs is dangerous and increases the likelihood of an overdose,” explained Dr. Schlabach. “Alcohol is a depressant, it’s easy to get, most people like it, and you don’t have to hide it.” “So what would the alcohol have been mixed with?” Cage asked. Dinah was silent, thinking of her own suicide attempt. She had tried to mix alcohol and sleeping pills, unsuccessfully. She was thankful to this day that she’d failed. “Depressants include drugs such as opium and heroin, cannabis, Valium, and barbiturates,” said Dr. Schlabach. “Any of these could have been used. I’d be thinking he might have used Valium or barbiturates, based on your description of finding white powder.” “So do you think Billy willingly swallowed this mixture of alcohol and depressants?” Cage asked. “Well, as I said, there were no visible marks of violence on him,” said Dr. Schlabach. “If one were forced to consume the mixture, you would expect to see bruising around the jaw. Of course, sometimes the anticipation of violence is enough to compel someone to do something. We probably won’t know if that was the case.” There was silence in the morgue for a few minutes. Then Dinah said without thinking, “I can sometimes understand why people in Billy’s situation would agree to be euthanized.” Dr. Schlabach gave her a quizzical look. “I have great empathy for Billy Atwood,” Dr. Schlabach began. “I can’t imagine what it would’ve been like to live with such a disease. I watched my own sister die of motor neuron disease, and it was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. But my sister Evelyn was a Christian woman. And she knew that even in the worst of circumstances, God works everything for good. Evelyn knew that she would die of her illness. Her faith and grace during her deterioration brought even the hardest of people to tears. Her love for God shone through everything she went through.” The doctor stopped to gather his thoughts. “Of course, from a clinical perspective, I am also opposed to euthanasia. Holland is one 208

The Shadowed Mind of the few countries in the world that has legalized euthanasia. It’s now reached a point where there is virtually no limit to killings done in the name of medicine. It is estimated that over 50 percent of euthanized patients were done so on an involuntary basis, or the patient themselves had not given consent to die.” Dr. Schlabach rubbed his eyes. “Furthermore, a study of terminally ill cancer patients showed that the suicide rate among that population was non-existent. Yet the euthanasia advocates would have you believe that almost anyone suffering from a terminal illness wants to die. Do you see the disparity there? Eventually, the argument moves from having the right to die, to the duty to die. The most vulnerable members of our community — the very sick, the elderly, the disabled — may feel that they have become a burden to their families and completely lose their right to life under the law.” He stopped and suddenly gave a wry grin. “Sorry, I’ve been sermonizing. I guess you can see how strongly I feel about euthanasia.” “I feel entirely the same way,” Dinah said quickly. Samson Cage just raised his eyebrows and as usual, said nothing. ****

The following morning, Dinah and Cage paid an unexpected call to the office of Edward Sable. The middle-aged Sable sat tensely behind his desk as his cashier showed them to his door. Detective Cage didn’t sit down. Instead, he paced the room; the effect was like having an agitated rhino stamping around. Edward Sable used a white handkerchief to blot the sweat blooming on his face. “Guess what, Mr. Sable?” Cage began, stopping for a moment and glaring at the other man. “What?” Sable asked weakly. His eyes darted around nervously, as if seeking an escape. “We found our next victim.” “Oh . . . that’s too bad,” said Sable. “Yes. And did you know that the next victim was physically disabled?” Cage leaned over the desk toward Sable, who shrank back. “No . . . no, I didn’t.” “Of course you knew that!” Cage roared. Sable flinched and scooted his chair back against the wall. 209

A Dinah Harris Mystery “I didn’t know that! How could I have known that?” Sable said desperately. “Because that was next on your list,” said Cage. “Remember your list of defective people who shouldn’t be allowed to live? Remember how coincidental it is that the victims are being killed in the precise order of your list?” “That list is public,” protested Sable. “I published it on our website. Anyone could have downloaded it and used it!” “Perhaps they did,” said Cage agreeably. The change in his tone made Sable look at the detective with a mixture of relief and suspicion. “Or perhaps you sanctioned the use of the list, and the killer is using it with your full knowledge.” “No!” said Sable. “There is no way that I know who the killer is! It certainly isn’t me.” “So where were you last night?” Cage asked. “At home, with my family,” said Sable. “We had dinner, watched a movie on TV.” “What movie?” “Uh . . . Disturbia, I think.” “How ironic,” commented Cage. “They’ll vouch for me,” said Sable, wiping his brow. “I couldn’t possibly have done this.” “What about your pal Leonard Marks?” Sable paused, trying to adjust to the sudden change in subject. “What about him?” “He strikes me as an extremist,” said Cage. “Well, he is one of our more radical members,” admitted Sable, clearly relieved that the heat was on Marks now. “Is he so radical to embark on a murder spree?” Cage asked. “Look, I really don’t think so,” said Sable. “But I don’t know him that well.” “Aren’t you both in this eugenics society?” Cage asked. “What do you call it?” “The Movement,” replied Sable. “Yes, we do both belong, but we don’t socialize.” “You don’t hang out at all?” Cage asked incredulously. “Come on. You expect me to believe that?” 210

The Shadowed Mind “I do socialize with some of the members,” conceded Sable. “But not Leonard.” “Why not?” “Well, you’ve met him,” said Sable. “He’s a little . . . unbalanced. He’s just not that fun to hang around, you know what I mean?” “Right. So is he unbalanced enough to commit murder in the name of improving society?” Cage asked. “I don’t know. I suppose he could be.” He’s eager to shift the suspicion away from himself, thought Dinah. He will say anything about his colleague. As if thinking the same thought, Cage shot Dinah a wry glance. “He certainly appears to be the most outspoken among the members of the Movement,” continued Cage. “Well, he’s young and idealistic,” said Sable. “I’ve toned down over the years because I’ve learned acting aggressive about it gets you nowhere. He hasn’t learned that yet.” Cage sat down and leaned back in the small chair, trying to look relaxed. “Anyone in your group do martial arts?” Sable looked confused. “Martial arts? Like karate?” “Sure, that’s one of them. Or judo or kickboxing or tae kwon do.” Sable frowned. “Uh . . . not sure. Why do you ask?” “What about Leonard Marks?” pressed Cage. “Does he do any martial arts?” “I don’t know,” said Sable. “If he does, I’ve never seen any evidence of it.” “Do you know anything about the time he spent in Thailand?” Cage asked. “I know he was researching his thesis or something like that,” said Sable. He flicked his ponytail nervously. Dinah imagined taking a pair of scissors and cutting the stupid thing off. “Anything else you know about that trip?” Cage asked. He stood up and started pacing again impatiently. “No, I’m sorry. The thing is, we don’t really talk outside of society business,” said Sable. “I’d really like to help you.” I’ll bet, thought Dinah, if it means you’re no longer a suspect. “So who is next on the list?” Cage asked, pulling a sheet of paper out from his pocket and consulting it. 211

A Dinah Harris Mystery Sable had the decency to look a little embarrassed. “Uh . . . if I remember correctly, an alcoholic?” Cage snapped his fingers. “Right. What are we going to do if the next victim turns out to be an alcoholic?” Dinah turned her most venomous gaze on Sable, who began to wilt. “I don’t know! I really have nothing to do with this!” Cage pointed at the other man. “I’m watching you. If I find out you have anything at all to do with this, I’m going to charge you with everything I can think of. You holding out on me, man?” Sable began to shake. “No! No!” Cage gave him a disgusted look and motioned to Dinah. “Let’s go.” Cage and Dinah left the building, their frustration building. “We have the list tying Sable to the victims,” said Dinah, thinking out loud. “But he can’t be the killer. He doesn’t match the physical description.” “Leonard Marks does match the description,” mused Cage. “I’ve seen him perform at least one martial arts technique, plus he has no alibi.” “You think he’s our guy?” Dinah asked. “I’m starting to think that way,” admitted Cage. “I’m thinking of a search warrant. What do you think?” “Let’s do it,” agreed Dinah. It would give her great pleasure to bring down Leonard Marks. ****

Her father fell asleep reasonably early that morning, having had endured another rough night filled with nightmares. Ella Barnett wasn’t sure she wanted to keep reading The Lost Boys but she felt she must; she had a compelling need to finish the book. She knew it would reveal to her the connection between her father, John Barnett, and the mysterious Peter and Henry, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the details. With coffee and a bagel, she sat in the kitchen where she could still see her father, and began to read. The autobiography began to delve into some dark territory. The boys were wards of the state during the 1950s, a time when there 212

The Shadowed Mind was precious little regulation and the warden wielded ultimate control. The warden was a strict authoritarian, and his punishments were severe. In the classroom, corporal punishment was common and frequent. Boys were boxed in the ear for giving the wrong answer. Infractions such as talking during class or being disrespectful earned lashings with the ruler at the front of the room. The worst punishment was being sent to the warden’s office. The walk down the long corridor was dubbed the Green Mile; such was the fear of facing the warden. There, he would remove his belt and thrash the boy repeatedly on the back, leaving welts, bruises, and cuts. Often the boy would be unable to sit or lie comfortably for a week. The warden would often, if the mood suited him, punch, kick, and push a boy for no reason at all. For what were considered major infractions, such as not doing homework or breaking a rule, the boys would serve solitary confinement, which translated to several days locked in a closet, unable to stand or lie; starvation of meals for several days; or being forced to stand outside in all kinds of inclement weather for hours on end. Ella put the book down and took a deep breath. She felt sick and cold at the same time. It was inconceivable to her that someone could abuse children in his care so harshly — and worse, that he seemed to get away with it. Ella thought of Henry and Peter living in such a place, completely alone in the world, nobody to stand up for them. If she had thought the absence of love was bad, the daily beatings and anticipation of violence at any moment must be a thousand times worse. Yet this was where Henry and Peter had spent their formative years. Ella realized her hands were shaking and her palms were slick. She took a few more deep breaths. It was important to continue, much as she didn’t want to. The compulsion driving her to read the book was deep, something she didn’t understand and yet knew was vitally important. Perhaps the abuse would have been tolerable if the boys had united together, but this was actively discouraged. Of course, such a violent atmosphere taught the boys that the strongest survived, and so violence bred among the boys as virulently as the plague. The warden would 213

A Dinah Harris Mystery pit boys against each other, under the guise of teaching boxing or selfdefense. In reality, it was for the sick entertainment of the warden. Seeing the close friendship between Henry and Peter, the warden sensed their combined hatred for him. Peter Kilpatrick described one afternoon on the football field with the rest of the school watching, when he decided to give them lessons in bare-knuckle fighting: “Go on, hit him,” he said. “Let’s see what you’re made of.” I didn’t want to hit him. I was a little heavier and a little taller than my friend Henry. I didn’t want to hurt him. We both stood shirtless, and I could see he was bony and slight. He was scared, too. He stared at me in silent desperation, willing me not to hit him. So I gave a pathetic swing, which missed Henry by a mile. “Are you a girl?” demanded the warden. “Hit him properly!” I did it again, still missing Henry’s face by a good margin. It was a mistake: it infuriated the warden. He marched over to us and said to me, “If you don’t hit him properly, I will. And then I’ll hit you, too. Understand?” My knees went weak and wobbly. The warden’s threats weren’t empty, and the pain he inflicted was very real. Knowing that I would at least do less damage than the warden, I hit my friend Henry. I hated the sensation of it. I could see the pain flash through his eyes, as his head was knocked backward. “Hit him back, you gutless coward!” the warden yelled at Henry. I welcomed it. I wanted Henry to inflict pain on me, too. Although he was afraid, Henry hit me. For a small guy, he packed a surprising power. Blood began flowing from my nose. “Hit him!” screamed the warden. So back and forth, we exchanged blows, each hoping that we weren’t hurting the other too much. Inevitably, my size began to win this amateur fight and Henry’s blows began to miss their targets. As I threw a punch, Henry turned his head and I caught him flush underneath the 214

The Shadowed Mind jaw. He collapsed to the ground, groaning. I could see blood coming from his mouth and from a cut about his eye. Part of me was utterly sickened that I had caused him pain. Part of me was thankful that this sorry fight was over. At least I thought it was. “Keep going!” screamed the warden. “You’re not done yet!” I turned to the warden, dumbfounded. “He’s down!” “Keep going!” I looked down at Henry, curled into the fetal position to protect himself. “No way,” I said. “Do it!” shrieked the warden. Although I was scared of the warden, I knew my own limits. I just couldn’t do it. “No.” The warden came over to me. “I’ll do it then,” he threatened. “And you’ll go to solitary.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m sorry,” I said to Henry. “I just can’t do it.” The warden kicked Henry in the ribs with a stomachturning thud. He wouldn’t be able to walk, sit, use the bathroom, or stand without pain for a week. I got three days in solitary with no food. I sat in that hellhole, wondering when it would end. Ella let the book fall to the floor from shaking hands. She wasn’t aware of the tears that streamed down her face.

215

D

inah arrived home, the frustration with the case still churning in her stomach and mind. What is it we’ve missed? she wondered. Was there some tiny clue she’d overlooked — some connection that hadn’t fired? She slammed her bag down on the counter and glared at the refrigerator angrily as if it were to blame. The doorbell rang. Still preoccupied, she signed for an envelope from the courier without really looking at it and wandered back into her living room. She tore open the envelope and took out a card. Then she realized what she was holding and stared at it. It was a generic greeting card with the words In Sympathy embossed on the front cover. It was very similar to the cards found on the bodies of the victims. In trepidation, Dinah opened the card. There was a plain computer printout glued to the inside of the card. It read: 216

r 17

Chapte

Legislature passed in Germany 1933. Eugenics in the Service of Public Welfare For the prevention of progeny with hereditary defects in cases of congenital mental defects, schizophrenia, manic-depressive psychosis, hereditary epilepsy, and severe alcoholism. The last two words were circled in thick, black marker. Most chillingly, the next two words read: You’re next.

Dinah felt her stomach freeze and constrict as she stared at the words. The room spun crazily around her for a moment as she reeled in shock. Then she realized that she was an investigator and she had to get herself together. With a mental slap across the face, she started to think logically about the message. First, this had to come from the killer. They had not mentioned the cards or the messages to the media. Nobody outside the circle of investigators, crime scene technicians, and the medical examiner knew. Therefore it was unlikely to be an empty threat or copycat. Dinah immediately checked that all her windows and doors were locked. Second, she thought about how the killer knew she was an alcoholic. Anyone in law enforcement circles knew about it, of course. And although it wasn’t exactly public knowledge, it was possible to arrive at that conclusion based on a simple Google search. The most worrying thing, she realized, was that the killer had a unique ability to build trust with his victims in a short space of time. Chances were he wouldn’t just turn up at her door and force his way in. His method was much too refined. He would try to win her trust before he tried to kill her. Dinah sat down and tried to relax. Her hands shook and stomach flipped constantly. She felt a stress headache flaring behind her eyes. If only I could have a drink to relax. The thought came out of nowhere and shocked her. Dinah licked her lips nervously. She tried to think of the case again, knowing it was better to keep her mind busy. It didn’t work. 217

A Dinah Harris Mystery She decided to pray, to ask God to take the craving from her. But her thoughts were jittery and rumbled, and she couldn’t concentrate. She opened her Bible and tried to read. When she read the same sentence four times and realized she still had no idea what it said, she slammed the book closed. There’s a whole bottle of vodka in the kitchen. Courtesy of Senator David Winters, Dinah thought. He knew her weakness well. She should pour it down the sink. She paced angrily around the room. The craving was like a force field around her, blocking her ability to overcome it. Again, she thought that the vodka ought to be poured down the sink. Yeah, you probably should. But why don’t you have just one drink first? Just to calm your nerves. Then you can pour out the rest. Dinah chewed her fingernails ferociously. When she couldn’t chew anymore, she resumed pacing the room. The terrible, unsatisfied restlessness charged through her like an electrical current. Then she found herself in the kitchen, staring at the bottle of vodka. She intended to pour it down the sink. That was the best thing to do. Just a tiny drink first. Her traitorous hand took a glass from the nearby cupboard. She watched, as if from a distance, as she opened the vodka bottle and poured herself a glass. It’s only a small glass. Before she could think about it any further, she took a huge gulp of the alcohol. It burned all the way down and water flooded her eyes. But the fiery sensation was like an old friend coming home. She took another mouthful, then another. Then the glass was finished. It was time to pour out the rest of the vodka. It was a bad idea to have such temptation lying around the house. The alcohol made her stomach warm. The sick feeling she’d had since she received the card had gone away. Her thoughts seemed clearer and less frantic. See, it’s not so bad. Alcohol has its good points too! Perhaps it would help her to think about the case more deeply if she had just another glass. Maybe it would unlock that vital missing clue that would point them to a killer. 218

The Shadowed Mind Another glass was poured. She drank it with less of the searing doubt in her mind. This time, she felt a familiar buzz in her head. It made her feel invincible and optimistic. You see? Happiness in a bottle. The self-destruct button had been pressed. Dinah didn’t know why she’d been so strong up to this point and was now giving in. But the seductive, cool tones of the alcohol as it slid down her throat removed her resistance. She knew she should put the glass down and get rid of the vodka altogether. You can’t because you’re weak. You need alcohol to be strong. She had been trying to be strong without needing vodka or wine to prop her up. But it was so hard. Part of her couldn’t help but agree with the words printed on the card. She was worthless, useless, and weak — giving into temptation at the first sign of trouble. What good was she for society anyway? You are no good. The sooner you realize this, the better. You might as well just give in to it. Later that evening, Dinah passed out on the couch. The vodka bottle was more than half empty. ****

When Dinah awoke early the next morning, it was with a rush. One moment she was asleep, the next completely awake. A second later, the reality of what she’d done the previous evening hit her with grim force. A second after that, the hangover kicked in. Dinah shakily sat up and the room tilted crazily. A jackhammer pounded relentlessly in her skull, throbbing at her temples. She sat still, unable to contemplate getting up. She wanted water and Tylenol, but she knew she had to wait out the vomiting first. When she stood, she felt the bile rise in her throat. She made it to the bathroom, where the waves of nausea kept rolling, even when her stomach was completely empty. She realized what a picture she must have made — kneeling, retching in the bathroom, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, her face sallow. Inside, she screamed at herself for giving in to temptation. But you skipped your last session with your counselor, didn’t you? 219

A Dinah Harris Mystery Dinah sighed. She knew how important going to her counseling sessions was, but she’d justified it, telling herself she was fine. She should have known better. She was nowhere near fine. And you haven’t been to church for a while either, have you? And by the way, you haven’t picked up the Bible or prayed regularly for a little while now, either. Isn’t it ironic, thought Dinah with exasperation, that the very voice encouraging her to drink last night was now condemning her for doing so? When she felt as if she could leave the bathroom for more than a minute, she found her cell phone and called Sandra Coleman with shaking hands. “Hello?” The remnants of Sandra’s Australian accent were still clear. “Hi, it’s Dinah.” “Hi, Dinah. It’s been a while since we talked! How are you?” Sandra asked warmly. “I . . . I’m not good,” stammered Dinah, feeling tears sting her eyes. “What’s wrong?” Sandra asked, sounding alarmed. Dinah was used to bottling up her feelings, but she took a deep breath and said, “I drank last night. I drank vodka until I passed out.” Dinah heard Sandra give a little gasp. “Oh, Dinah! Are you okay?” “Physically, I’m fine. Actually, I’m not. I have a terrible hangover. But I deserve it. What’s worse is how I feel about it.” Dinah paused, trying to think of the words she needed. “I’m disappointed, ashamed, and disgusted with myself.” “I understand,” said Sandra. “You know, we all sin. Sometimes we do the same thing over and over. You’re not alone in this.” “Yeah,” said Dinah bitterly. “But usually the mistakes people make don’t revolve around undoing months worth of sobriety and wasting rehab. Not to mention that I’m supposed to be a Christian. What sort of Christian passes out on the living room floor?” “You’re being very hard on yourself,” chided Sandra gently. “So you made a mistake and gave in to temptation. Do you think God hasn’t seen that before?” “Mine is on such a grand scale!” cried Dinah. “It’s not like I had an angry thought or got impatient in rush hour!” 220

The Shadowed Mind “It’s not,” agreed Sandra, “And the consequences of your action are testament to that. You need to think about how God sees you. You are a precious child of His, and you’ve sinned. There are no unforgiveable sins, none at all. It doesn’t mean God will wash His hands of you. Instead, He’s waiting to pick you back up.” “There’s still no excuse,” said Dinah, hardly daring to believe the other woman’s words. “No, there isn’t. That’s why you need to repent,” said Sandra. “God doesn’t want to hear lame excuses. What He wants is for your repentance to be real. He sees your heart, your regret, and your shame. Now it’s time to put that repentance into action. It’s not easy, Dinah. For you, it’s especially hard. Many of us sin all day long without having to contend with an addiction. But God is willing to give you His strength if you call on Him. He can give you the power to resist temptation. You need to trust Him on that. In fact, you have a trust problem. You need to trust God even through the pain and anguish.” “Okay,” said Dinah, feeling a little relieved. “Okay. I can do that.” “Listen, all of us are imperfect humans, susceptible to sin,” Sandra said. “Even the most devout, disciplined Christian will sin. It’s our fragile state of humanity. This is what Paul wrote of sin in Romans 7:15: ‘I don’t understand myself at all, for I really want to do what is right, but I don’t do it. Instead I do the very thing I hate.’ ” “That’s how I feel!” said Dinah. “I don’t want to do it, yet I find myself doing it!” “Guilt has its place,” said Sandra. “It lets you know when you’ve done wrong. But there is no point in holding onto it. If you truly repent of your sin, you know that Jesus has already paid the price for you on the Cross. You’re forgiven, and then it’s time to move on. Ask God for strength and wisdom, and move on with Him in control. Do you understand?” “I think I’m starting to understand,” said Dinah. “I must seem very dense to you. This is so new to me.” “I don’t think you’re dense at all,” said Sandra. “You’re just like any of us. I think you also need to understand the circumstances in which you’ve sinned. How did you come to have alcohol in your home, Dinah?” 221

A Dinah Harris Mystery Dinah cleared her throat. “It was sent to me . . . as a gift.” “You didn’t think to get rid of it immediately?” inquired Sandra gently. “I did, actually.” Dinah lapsed into silence for a few moments, trying to understand her own behavior. “I don’t really know why I didn’t get rid of it.” “Okay,” said Sandra. “It’s important that you learn from this. It’s dangerous to put yourself in a position where it’s unlikely you can resist temptation. This is where you need to be wise with the choices you make. Now you know that you just can’t have alcohol in your home. Do you understand?” “I do,” said Dinah, wondering why something so easy to understand hadn’t occurred to her previously. “Listen, are you attending church?” Dinah paused, feeling embarrassed. “Uh . . . I haven’t been for a while.” “Okay,” said Sandra. “Look, you really should be going to church, Dinah. Jesus describes Himself as the head of the Church, and we, as believers, make up the body. The Church is designed by God to provide us with the things we need to grow as Christians. Hebrews 10 tells us to meet regularly so that we can encourage, support, and challenge each other toward spiritual growth. We are actually commanded by Jesus to regularly have fellowship with other Christians. In 1 John we are instructed to love fellow believers, and in James to pray for each other. In 1 Peter we are told that fellow believers can keep us accountable to God’s Word so that we don’t fall into temptation. We also go there to hear the Word of God preached so that we might learn and grow in our faith.” Sandra went on, “Sometimes God works through the pastor, and the sermon preached is exactly what we need to resist temptation or to get us through a difficult week.” After a pause she added, “You never know, if you’d been going to church, you might have had the support necessary to prevent a relapse. You need people around you to encourage and sustain you.” “Okay, I know I need to go to church,” admitted Dinah. “Oh, here’s Andy, he wants to speak with you,” said Sandra. “Will you be okay? Do you want me to call you in a couple of days?” 222

The Shadowed Mind Dinah was bad at asking for help, but she knew she needed it. A little shame-facedly, she said, “Yes, please. Thank you, Sandra.” ****

“Hey,” said Andy cheerfully. “How’s this eugenics case you’ve been working on going?” “It’s frustrating,” admitted Dinah, mentally switching gears. “We have a very smart killer leaving us next to no clues; though I am getting a first-class education in eugenics and euthanasia.” “It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” Andy said, with a wry chuckle. “Essentially, it is the practice of naturalistic science without compassion, which is a very dangerous combination.” “Eugenics surely can’t gain support here again, can it?” Dinah asked. “Especially after what we saw in the Holocaust?” “They’re already trying to,” said Andy grimly. “It’ll take on a different form. For example, there is a great push to legalize euthanasia. That immediately puts the rights of the already vulnerable on shaky ground. You know, for a society that on one hand continually talks about how we must respect each other’s rights, we, on the other hand, are bent on removing the rights of all sorts of people, including unborn babies, the terminally sick, the disabled, and the elderly. Why is it the strong insist on protecting only their own rights? When will we start to be concerned for those who don’t have a voice?” Dinah felt desperately sad at the man’s words, because she knew that he was right. “How did this happen?” she asked. “I’ve been wondering about Germany, too. How could a nation that was once Christian turn into a country capable of the Holocaust? I mean, isn’t this the country that gave us Martin Luther?” “When humans start to replace godly views with ones of their own, cultures start to change radically,” said Andy. “I’m not placing all of the blame at Charles Darwin’s feet for what happened in Germany, because others certainly had a hand in it, and ultimately, the reason for this tragedy is because humans are full of sin. But Darwin gave scientists, philosophers, and scholars a way to expunge God from their thinking. By the time Hitler came into power, he was openly antiChristian. It took a hundred years for the culture to change from a 223

A Dinah Harris Mystery predominantly Christian influence to a more naturalistic, evolutionary way of thinking.” There was a rustling noise as Andy tried to find something. “Here it is,” he said, after a few seconds. “A speaker who works for the Genesis Legacy just did a paper on this very topic, and he references Mein Kampf, written by Hitler, extensively. So here is what Hitler had to say about religion: that it is an organized lie that must be smashed. He goes on to say that he has six divisions of SS men — that’s a minimum of sixty thousand men — absolutely indifferent to matters of religion, and that it doesn’t prevent them from going to their deaths with serenity in their souls.” “Wow,” Dinah said. “Hitler particularly disapproved of Christian missionaries going to Africa, because he believed that black Africans were monstrosities halfway between man and ape.” Andy paused. “His words, not mine.” “That’s just awful,” Dinah said, shaking her head. “You’ve heard of Ernst Haeckel, the prominent Darwinist? He wrote in his book Natural History of Creation that the Church, with its love for morality and charity, was a perversion of the natural order. One of the reasons for this conclusion is because Haeckel writes that Christianity makes no distinction of race or color and seeks to break down racial barriers. He goes on to call Christianity anti-evolutionary. Can you believe it? This eminent scholar was saying that caring for fellow humans was a perversion, and that Christianity was wrong for seeing all races as equal and precious in God’s eyes.” “Gotta look after number one,” Dinah said dryly. “Both Haeckel and Hitler’s right-hand man, Martin Bormann, wrote that Christianity and evolution were incompatible, because humankind’s social and political existence is governed by the laws of evolution, natural selection, and biology; organized religion stands in the way of social and scientific progress and is built upon the ignorance of men. Bormann further states that Christianity is threatened by scientific knowledge and that it takes great pains to suppress or falsify scientific research.” Dinah frowned. “Where have I heard that before?” “You’re absolutely correct,” Andy said. “That is precisely what Christians are accused of doing today. Standing in the way of social 224

The Shadowed Mind progress — namely resisting euthanasia and abortion, and preventing scientific progress — namely teaching that evolution and Darwinism is as much a religion as Christianity is. Yet our society has again taken the view that Darwinism is religion-neutral, despite the fact that Christian teaching and prayer has been removed from schools and public places. Darwinism is not religion-neutral. It is quite plainly a religion based on man as the supreme authority, seeking to take the place of God as the supreme authority.” “So what we’re doing in 21st-century America is copying the mistakes that we made earlier,” Dinah said. “Have I understood correctly?” “That’s precisely right,” Andy said. “The conscience of this nation has moved from a Christian one to a naturalistic, Darwinist one. In Nazi Germany it opened the door to eugenics, racial cleansing, and the Holocaust. We don’t know yet what it will do to our great nation, but here is a thought: We can gauge the principles of a nation on what its leadership says. Our leadership just recently made the comment that we are no longer a Christian nation, but a nation of Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, and non-believers.” “You know,” Dinah said, after thinking for a few moments. “I don’t think many people even realize that this is happening.” “No, they don’t,” agreed Andy. “Just as many Germans didn’t realize what was happening in the concentration camps. But really, it’s no excuse. In fact, here is a quote that sums it up beautifully. Dietrich Bonheoffer was a Lutheran pastor in Nazi Germany, who was eventually hanged for plotting to overthrow Hitler in 1945. Are you ready?” “Go ahead,” said Dinah. “ ‘First, they came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Socialists and the Trade Unionists, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Jews, but I was not a Jew, so I did not speak out. And when they came for me, there was no one left to speak out for me.’ ” ****

Detective Samson Cage called later that afternoon. He sounded excited, which for him meant that he spoke a little more quickly than he usually did. Dinah was thankful her hangover had quieted down to a decent headache and a shaky stomach. 225

A Dinah Harris Mystery “I got some good news from the lab,” he said. “Want to hear it?” “Of course I do!” Dinah said impatiently. “You think I’d say no?” “I’ve made it my business never to anticipate what women will say,” Cage said gravely. “Okay, just hurry it up!” Dinah rolled her eyes. “So, the polyurethane flakes were found at the crime scene and in the van, and the lab narrowed down what the polyurethane would have been used for; no mean feat considering it’s used for a million things.” He paused, waiting for Dinah to say something. Eventually she did: “Didn’t I tell you to hurry up?” “Right. Well, the polyurethane is used in furniture polish,” explained Cage. “It’s used instead of varnish on wooden furniture, and is easily obtainable by your average home handyman.” “So our killer polishes furniture?” Dinah wondered, trying to think through her headache. “Well, it’s a start,” Cage said. “If we get that search warrant for Leonard Marks’s place, we might find furniture that has been recently polished, know what I mean?” “We’ve been to his apartment,” said Dinah thoughtfully. “Do you remember seeing any wooden furniture there?” Cage paused. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t. It was all cheap plastic or veneer furniture.” “Well,” said Dinah. “It could be that he has a workshop somewhere.” “Great,” groaned Cage. “So we have to include in our search warrant some workshop, whose location or existence we can’t provide?” Dinah thought for a moment. “Let me think about it,” she said. “There’ll be a way.” Silently, she thought, You won’t beat me, Leonard Marks. Cage said, “Do you want to hear about the next piece of good news?” “Shoot.” “The old photo we found on the body of Lakeisha Tennant, our very first victim,” Cage said. “The lab’s vast image resource gallery finally found a match.” Dinah perked up. “Really?” 226

The Shadowed Mind “Yes, to a book called The Lost Boys.” “I haven’t heard of it.” “It’s an autobiography written by two men named Peter Kilpatrick and Henry Black,” explained Cage. “It was published in the early 1990s, so almost 20 years ago now. I’m trying to get my hands on a copy of it because it’s out of print. Can you try, too? Perhaps there’s some information in the book that will really help us.” “Okay, I’m on it,” said Dinah, glad that she had a task to do. When she hung up, she logged onto Amazon, hoping to find the book. It was listed, but was classified as out of print. The best she could do was put an order in for the book and hope that the publisher would dig up a copy for her. It seemed that would be pretty unlikely. Tapping her fingers on the desk, she thought hard about how she could get her hands on a copy. Then she thought of eBay. She searched for the book by title and by author, but nothing came up. She wasn’t surprised. Who would try to sell an obscure and out-of-print book written by authors nobody knew? Dinah drummed her fingers on her desk impatiently. Perhaps her good friend Google would help. Her search for obtaining out-of-print books yielded a website designed specifically for finding rare, collectable, and out-of-print titles. Dinah smiled, entering the search parameters into the website. There were two copies of the book still left in the country, both at tiny bookstores, one located in New York and one in Pennsylvania. She could just imagine the stores — they would be the kind where books were piled untidily all the way to the ceiling, the proprietor would be a middle-aged man who much preferred the company of books to people, and where rare treasures were almost always found. She called both stores and arranged for both copies to be sent to her via FedEx. Then she rang Detective Cage to let him know that she would have a copy of the book by tomorrow. After she’d hung up, she sat lost in thought at her desk, trying to ignore the slightly sick feeling in her stomach, the residue of last night’s excess. What did they know about this elusive killer? He had eyes that had been described as dead and cold. He had an innate ability to build an instant rapport with his victims. He knew 227

A Dinah Harris Mystery and practiced an ancient martial art. He professed eugenics as a way of achieving utopia. He polished furniture. And there was something important to him in a book called The Lost Boys. Dinah sighed. The information they had was weak. It didn’t narrow down their search field to anything useable. Suddenly, Dinah realized that evening was falling over the city, and that she was alone and that there was a killer who wanted her dead. She swiftly checked the door locks and window locks, and then stood at the picture window in her living room, looking down at the street. Are you down there, waiting for me? she asked her would-be killer. Is it my life you want to take tonight? The street was emptying itself of the final commuters home from work. Every now and then, the high, clear voice of a child would peal out, but otherwise all was quiet. I’m waiting for you. You might have fooled poor Lakeisha, Benjamin, Ashleigh, and Billy — but you won’t fool me.

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ater that evening, after John Barnett had gone to bed, Ella fearfully reached for The Lost Boys again. In truth, she didn’t want to read it. She didn’t want to know what was coming next. Her gut instinct told her that it would shake the very foundations of her world. She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and opened the book. She only had a third of the book to go, and when she was finished, she wanted to get rid of it and forget that she’d ever read it. Peter and Henry somehow managed to keep existing in their hellish world of daily violence, meager food rations, and loneliness as deep as a yawning chasm. As they grew older, they began to fear what would be next for them after the orphanage. At the age of 18, boys were unceremoniously expelled into the wide world, with little funds, resources, or networks of any kind. Rumors were rife in the school that many of the 230

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boys ended up in jail, a place that was worse even than Albans Orphanage Asylum. Peter and Henry could barely imagine a place that was worse. Before this, the boys were required to undergo one more indignity. It was something that all the boys had to do when they reached the age of 15. They were discouraged from talking about it, so consequently none of the boys really understood what it was all about. At the height of summer each year, the entire sophomore class would be taken to the auditorium and spend several hours there. Some of the boys were then taken away for several days and came back looking paler and quieter than they’d been before. The older boys looked the other way, their own memories enough to deal with. The younger boys sensed a great trauma, but were forbidden to ask about it. As Peter and Henry approached summer in their 15th year, they both began to feel a sense of uneasy anticipation. They didn’t know what happened in the auditorium, or what happened afterward. The day drew inexorably closer, until finally Peter and Henry were shepherded into the auditorium, where a number of desks were set up, as if for an exam. The sophomore class numbered about 30, and they each found a desk, looking around the room and at each other with anxiety. One of the regular guards stood at the front of the room. Once the boys were seated, he began to speak. “Today you will be completing an IQ test. The objective of the exercise is to find out which of you are above average and which of you are below average.” It sounded ominous. Neither Henry nor Peter knew what an IQ test was or what the results meant. They watched as thick exam papers were distributed to all of the boys in the room. They were given two hours to complete the exam. There was silence in the room except for the scratching of pencils and the occasional cough or sigh. Once the exam was complete, the boys were sent to an adjoining room to eat lunch while the IQ tests were graded. The anxiety had faded, replaced by a kind of nervous relief. The test hadn’t been so bad; they were used to receiving treatment that was a lot worse. 231

A Dinah Harris Mystery The boys were eventually led back into the auditorium. The guard who had given them the tests had been joined by the warden, whose face was expressionless. The warden said, “I am going to read out a list of names. If you are mentioned, you must stay in the room. If not, you may now leave.” Of the 30 boys in the room, 8 names were called. Henry Black was one of the names; Peter Kilpatrick was free to leave. Peter tried to convey comfort to his friend through a quick look before he left the room. He could see the fear building in Henry’s face. The auditorium doors were once again locked, and the warden said, “You boys have failed the test.” The boys immediately grasped the fact that this was not good news. “All of you graded below average intelligence,” the warden continued, “in spite of the education you’ve received. In addition, I have flagged you for other reasons.” Henry wanted to curl himself into a ball. He knew the warden would have flagged him for many reasons — he wasn’t smart, he was small, he was too soft. His heart began to ache. “Some of these reasons include behavioral issues or physical issues,” said the warden. “In short, when combined with your IQ tests, a very strong pattern emerges.” Henry glanced at the other boys in the room, an odd mismatched group, all sitting in miserable silence. “That is why you will now go to the hospital to have a small medical procedure performed,” the warden said, “so that we do not see these undesirable characteristics continue to surface in future generations.” Medical procedure? Henry began to shake. He didn’t like the sound of that. One of the boys still possessed sufficient courage to ask, “Will it hurt?” The warden smiled. “No, it won’t hurt.” They were not provided with any further information about the procedure. They were driven to a nearby hospital. Henry remembered receiving a general anesthetic and waking up some time later with a strange ache deep in his belly. When he returned to school, the other boys asked what had happened. Henry didn’t precisely know, but he knew that he’d been marked 232

The Shadowed Mind for life because he wasn’t smart enough, fast enough, big enough, and strong enough to pass the test. Later, Henry discovered that the procedure performed on him was sterilization, designed to prevent him from having children. He did some research of his own as an adult and discovered that such procedures were carried out in many orphanages, jails, and mental asylums throughout the 1950s. It was commonplace for the government to decide which individuals should not be allowed to reproduce. The warden who had undertaken the IQ testing, allowed the medical operations, and generally visited horror upon countless boys in his care was a vociferous advocate of the sterilization laws enacted in Virginia. His name was John Barnett. The book fell from Ella’s hand with a loud clatter, but she didn’t hear it. She raised two shaky hands to her mouth and realized that she wanted to vomit. It all made sense now — the obsession with Peter and Henry as boys, the acute negative reaction to the book, the dark secrets he harbored in his heart. It was only now, as his shadowed mind deteriorated, that the truth was found. John Barnett, her loving, gentle father, who had cradled her head when it had been hot with fever, who had caught her when she fell off her first bike, who had written her a letter upon her graduation from college expressing his pride and love — had been a monster. ****

The book arrived in the mail the following morning, and Dinah eagerly unwrapped the packaging. Detective Samson Cage had promised to arrive as soon as possible to look through the book himself, but Dinah couldn’t wait for him. She skimmed as quickly as she could. A pattern began to emerge and Dinah spent much of the time shaking her head in disbelief. The treatment of orphans and other institutionalized people in the past was truly shameful. Detective Cage arrived with two steaming coffees. His pants legs were ironed into sharp creases, his tie was impeccably knotted, and his belt perfectly matched his shoes. Dinah would have made a sarcastic comment if she hadn’t been so preoccupied with the book. The middle of The Lost Boys contained the photograph section and here Dinah found the twin of the photo they’d found on the body of 233

A Dinah Harris Mystery Lakeisha Tennant. There was little further information except that the authors of the book, Peter Kilpatrick and Henry Black, were identified. However, the book gave them the location, chronology, and reason for the photo. “So what have you found?” Detective Cage asked, taking a sip of his coffee that could only be described as dainty. “The book is a litany of institutional abuse,” explained Dinah frowning. “The authors were two boys who lived at an orphanage in Virginia. It’s about the treatment they received there. It’s not easy reading.” Cage nodded and took his copy of the book. For a while they sat in silence, each sipping coffee and skimming as quickly as possible. Every now and again, Cage would give a low whistle of incredulity. Finally, Dinah said, “I think this might be pertinent.” She pointed at the chapter she was reading. “Virginia still enforced involuntary sterilization laws during the 1950s. The orphanage ran state-funded IQ tests and the boys who tested low were sterilized.” Cage stared at her. “Are you serious?” “Deadly serious,” said Dinah. “All boys were required to take the test at the age of 15.” She paused. “One of the authors, Henry Black, failed the test and was sterilized.” “Did he even know what that meant?” Detective Cage asked. “No. They weren’t told what had happened to them,” Dinah explained. “He only found out later, when he did some independent research.” Cage drained his coffee and said thoughtfully, “So we have a killer quoting well-known eugenicists, and leaving this photo as evidence of eugenics being practiced during the 1950s. Do you think he could be one of the authors of this book?” “Possibly,” mused Dinah. “My theory is that someone exposed to such violence could then inflict that upon others.” Cage laughed sardonically. “The vast majority of violent felons currently residing in our jails were abused as children in one form or another. If a boy grew up in an environment where the strongest survived by beating up the weak, he may resent or hate the weak. Look at our victims: a young drug-addicted girl, a mentally ill man, a homeless woman, a physically disabled person. He seems to hate what he sees 234

The Shadowed Mind as weakness, and he perhaps is using eugenics to justify his homicidal urge.” And his next victim could be an alcoholic, Dinah thought wryly. “Should we find these authors?” Dinah suggested. “If not one of the killers, they might know who is.” Detective Cage nodded. “Let me call the office and get someone to track them down. Their publisher will probably know where they are.” He took out his cell phone and spoke into it quietly for a few moments. Dinah leafed through the pictures in the middle of the book. All were old-fashioned and grainy. Aside from the photo that had been found on the murder victim, there were photos of the staff of the orphanage, and more individual photos of Peter Kilpatrick and Henry Black as they grew older and eventually left the home. Henry Black seemed to fare the worst of the two — after leaving the orphanage, he’d drifted aimlessly for a few months before joining the army. The disciplined life didn’t seem to sit well with the young man, who’d shown anger problems and eventually assaulted his commanding officer. He’d been dishonorably discharged only a year after joining. He’d resumed drifting around the country, working in a variety of minimum wage jobs and getting into minor difficulties with the law. He developed a taste for alcohol and cocaine, and his life seemed to revolve around acquiring enough funds to support his habit. Acquiring funds eventually included burglary and car theft, for which Henry was caught and sent to jail. This pattern was repeated over and over throughout his twenties and thirties, the only difference being that the jail sentences became progressively longer. Peter Kilpatrick had received good grades and managed to scrape by on a scholarship at George Washington University before completing his MBA. He worked in a New York City brokerage house, quietly working his way up the promotional ladder. Then he started to wonder about his friend Henry Black. When they met in DC, Peter was shocked at how Henry looked. His friend looked twice their age, with a carpet of broken capillaries blanketing his nose and the vacant eyes of a habitual drug user. It was then that Henry told him the story of discovering that he’d been sterilized while a ward of the state. Peter had been shocked and 235

A Dinah Harris Mystery started to indignantly suggest lawsuits and revenge. If Henry could get some money by way of settlement, he could go to rehab and get his life back in order. Henry had looked at his school friend and said in a weary voice, “Would it change anything in my life? Probably not. I was like this before I found out about the sterilization.” Peter then realized that Henry didn’t want to change, and that in all likelihood, he wouldn’t see the age of 40. Dinah glanced up as Cage answered his cell phone. It was incredibly tragic to read of the destruction wrought on young boys’ lives as a result of abuse and neglect. If only there had been a loving family, willing to care for Henry Black and Peter Kilpatrick with love and compassion, how different things might have been for them. Cage hung up and said, “Let’s roll; I’ve got an address for Peter Kilpatrick.” Clutching the book to her chest, Dinah followed the big detective. ****

Peter Kilpatrick now lived in Baltimore, Maryland, and Detective Cage headed north in the unmarked police car. While he drove, Dinah continued to look through the book. She started with the photographs. She studied them carefully, looking through the names of each of the captions to see if any would ring a bell. Nothing immediately jumped out at her. She let the book fall her to her lap and frowned, thinking. The message behind the murders seemed to revolve around eugenics, the belief that undesirable characteristics should be removed from the gene pool. What did this book have in common with the murders? The warden at the Albans Orphanage Asylum had at the very least supported the eugenic legislation of the day, though the description of his behavior in The Lost Boys seemed to suggest that he was rather enthusiastic about the eugenic beliefs. However, the warden would have to be in his mid-eighties now and surely not a candidate for being a murder suspect. Just under an hour later they arrived at the offices of Peter Kilpatrick. He ran his own brokerage firm now, although he’d been happy to leave the frenetic pace of New York City behind him. 236

The Shadowed Mind He was now in his early sixties, a tall, distinguished man with silver hair and a kind face. He led them into his spacious office and slowly eased himself into his chair with a groan. He also was obviously far too old to be the killer, unless he somehow attained a more youthful gait and a brown wig as he coaxed his victims to their deaths. “I’m not what I used to be,” he said, with a rueful smile. “It’s almost time to give up the game, I think.” “You’re thinking of retiring?” Dinah asked curiously. “Well, yes. I think perhaps I’d like to spend time with the good wife,” Kilpatrick said. “I just don’t have the passion for this work anymore. Anyway, you didn’t come here to listen to me ramble on. What can I help you with?” Detective Cage held up the book The Lost Boys. “I understand you co-authored this book some years ago,” he began. Kilpatrick grimaced. “I did. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but it was strangely cathartic. I did it mostly for Henry.” “Why is that?” “If you’ve read the book, you’ll know,” Kilpatrick said. “Henry was a troubled man. And he was barely scraping by, so I thought writing the book would help him deal with some of his demons and also earn him some money.” “Henry Black seemed to have had a harder time at Albans than you?” Cage asked, as delicately as possible. Kilpatrick considered. “I was tall. Henry was short, skinny, and a natural target for bullies.” “The other boys?” Dinah asked shrewdly. “Not just them,” said Kilpatrick, with a sigh. “The warden and guards, too.” “Why did they pick on Henry?” “Because he couldn’t — or wouldn’t — defend himself, I suppose.” Kilpatrick stared distantly out of his window. “He was a soft, sensitive soul. He infuriated the warden because he wouldn’t fight.” “He wouldn’t fight with the warden?” Dinah asked. Kilpatrick compressed his lips. “This is hard to talk about. I’ve deliberately tried not to think about those years.” After a pause, he continued, “The warden liked to pit boys against each other. He would choose a big, strong boy to fight against a smaller one. He claimed he 237

A Dinah Harris Mystery wanted to teach us boxing and self-defense skills, but it was really so that he could get his kicks. Nothing seemed to please him more than seeing a boy get beaten up by another student.” Dinah took a deep breath and wondered at the molten anger she would have felt had anyone treated her son that way. “The warden would often have me fight Henry,” said Kilpatrick. “He didn’t like the fact that we were friends. But Henry would rarely fight back; he just hated it and sometimes he’d just curl up in a ball on the ground and wait it out. The warden would go absolutely nuts.” “What would he do?” Dinah asked. “If Henry didn’t fight back, the warden would beat him and send him to solitary confinement,” said Kilpatrick. “I’d get the same if I refused to fight. But it was never as bad for me. The warden really hated the smaller, weaker boys. And Henry wasn’t academically gifted, either, so that made it even worse for him.” “What was solitary confinement?” Cage asked somberly. “A closet small enough so that you couldn’t stand up straight or lie down,” explained Kilpatrick. “No food and only a jug of water.” “So how did Henry Black come to be sterilized?” Cage asked. “We all did an IQ test at the age of 15,” said Kilpatrick. “From what I understand, whoever failed it underwent the operation. They weren’t told what had happened. Henry only found out about it years later.” “Are you aware that one of the photos in your book was discovered on the body of a murder victim recently?” Cage asked. Kilpatrick looked shocked. “Excuse me? What are you talking about?” “One of the photos in your book was found on the body of a murder victim,” repeated Cage. “I wondered if you knew anything about that?” Kilpatrick’s face had drained of color. “I have absolutely no idea! How awful!” He looked back and forth between Cage and Dinah. “You don’t think I. . . ? Good heavens! You do!” “Relax, Mr. Kilpatrick,” said Cage. “We don’t think anything at this point. But it would be helpful if you could give us your whereabouts at the following times.” He read out the dates and approximate times of death for each of the victims. 238

The Shadowed Mind Kilpatrick shakily checked through his iPhone calendar. Relief washed through his features. “I had my psychiatrist appointment for two of the dates you’ve given me,” he said. He glanced up, unembarrassed. “I’ve seen a shrink for a long time now. I think you can guess why.” He also had a solid alibi for the remaining two dates. Dinah didn’t think Kilpatrick was capable of the murders — plus, he didn’t fit the description of the murderer as described by the staff at the Forest Glen Palliative Care Home. “Have you seen Henry recently?” Cage asked, after writing everything Kilpatrick had said down. Kilpatrick gave a melancholy smile. “No, Detective. He committed suicide five years ago.” Dinah and Cage glanced at each other. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Kilpatrick,” said Dinah. Kilpatrick nodded. “He had a hard life. He didn’t really recover from Albans. So it wasn’t entirely unexpected.” They sat in silence for several moments, thinking of a wasted life that could have been so different had Henry Black experienced love and compassion instead of terror and abuse. “Have you seen the warden since?” Dinah asked. Kilpatrick grimaced. “No, I haven’t. I wouldn’t care to. But if you asked me if I thought he was capable of murder, I would definitely say yes. The man was a monster. There wasn’t an ounce of goodness in him. I would say that he was, quite simply, pure evil.” ****

Early afternoon sun slanted across the windshield as Cage drove toward Washington, DC, from Baltimore. On his voicemail, his office had left the address of the warden from Albans, John Barnett, and the investigators were now on their way. They drove in silence, each contemplating the story they’d just heard. “So Kilpatrick thinks that the warden was evil, and capable of murder,” said Dinah, thinking out loud. “That would make him a great suspect. But he’d have to be in his seventies or eighties now, wouldn’t he?” 239

A Dinah Harris Mystery “Yeah, I’d imagine he’d be far too old to be committing these murders,” agreed Cage. “But what if he had a son or a protégé to whom he passed on his beliefs?” Dinah nodded thoughtfully. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” John Barnett, the warden of Albans Orphanage Asylum, lived in the affluent Washington suburb of Columbia Heights. It was a quiet suburb where the lots were large and perfectly manicured and the houses pure American dream. A woman in her early thirties answered the door. She was attractive but careworn, her hair in desperate need of a cut and her eyes full of worry. “Detective Samson Cage,” introduced the big policeman, holding up his gold badge. “We were wondering if we could speak with John Barnett.” The woman instantly looked anxious. “Is he okay? Has he done something?” Cage raised his eyebrows. “That’s what we’re here to find out, ma’am. Are you related to him?” “Yes, I’m his daughter, Ella,” she replied. “Do you have reason to believe he may be in trouble with the law?” Cage asked. Ella sighed. “Not in the way you’re thinking, Detective,” she said. “My father has advanced Alzheimer’s disease. The reason I thought he might be in trouble is because he quite often scares people.” Cage glanced at Dinah, whose heart sank. How could they interrogate a man with dementia? “Anyway, please come in,” Ella said. She stood aside and allowed Dinah and Cage to walk into the house. She led them to the formal living room, where a spectacular baby grand piano took center stage, flanked by antique distressed leather armchairs. “So perhaps I can help with your inquiries?” Ella asked, after she had offered coffee. Cage pulled out his copy of The Lost Boys. “Are you familiar with this book?” Ella visibly flinched. She opened her mouth and whispered, “How did you find that book?” 240

The Shadowed Mind Cage didn’t reply, but waited for her to answer his question first. Finally, she said, “I’ve only just read it myself. I had no idea.” “You had no idea your father was the warden of the Albans Orphanage Asylum?” Cage asked quietly. “Or that he was involved in the abuse and neglect of boys in his care?” Ella’s eyes filled with tears. “Both, Detective. My father, for as long as I’ve known him, was a gentle, loving, Christian father. I’ve never seen him lift a finger against anyone in anger. This book . . . it’s devastating.” Cage cleared his throat. “Did he ever mention to you anything about inflicting involuntary sterilizations on some of the boys in his care?” Ella shook her head. “You must understand that Dad didn’t breathe a word of this to us at any point. I literally knew nothing about any of this. I just don’t know how he could have been capable of the things described in that book.” “What’s going on?” An old man suddenly appeared at the door jamb, and despite the ravages of age and his disease, Dinah could see the ghost of the young man John Barnett had once been. “Are you the police?” Ella seemed to debate within herself whether to lie, and eventually she said, “Yes, Dad.” The old man nodded and his confusion seemed to deepen. “What’s going on?” “Nothing, Dad,” said Ella, rising stiffly to help her father into one of the leather chairs. “I’m just answering some questions for them. There’s nothing to worry about.” “So what do you know about Albans Orphanage Asylum?” Detective Cage asked. “I know what’s written in the book,” Ella said, her eyes distant. “This was not something Dad has ever spoken about before.” “Has he ever spoken about his past at all?” Cage persisted. “Like, when he knew your mother, for instance?” “My mother was a nurse,” Ella said. “She was working in a hospital when she met Dad.” “What was he doing there?” “I don’t know. I assumed he was a patient.” 241

A Dinah Harris Mystery Dinah and Cage exchanged a glance. “Is it possible that he was there with some boys under his care to be sterilized?” suggested Cage. Ella flinched and turned her bottomless gaze on the detective. “I . . . I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “I suppose it’s possible. I just don’t know the truth anymore, Detective.” “I understand,” said Cage gently. “Would your mother have known about his life as the warden of Albans?” Ella sighed. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but it turns out I don’t know much. My mother was always a Christian, even before she met Dad. I know that when they got married, Dad was a Christian, too. So there must have been a pretty drastic change in him for my mother to have married him.” Cage nodded thoughtfully. “So your father never talked to you about violence or hatred toward other people?” Cage asked. Ella allowed herself a small smile. “No. He was kind and gentle with everyone. He’s the one who taught me to care for other people as if they were family. Ironic, huh?” “Do you have any brothers and sisters?” “I have a brother in Oregon,” said Ella. “Micah hasn’t been back here for a few years now. I think he’s in denial about how bad Dad really is.” Dinah watched Cage write in his notebook to follow up on Ella’s brother. “Did your father have a good relationship with Micah?” “Yes, they were very close,” said Ella. “Now that I know the whole story, I can understand why Dad was so gentle with us.” Dinah and Cage both sat in silent contemplation. It would be impossible for John Barnett to be the killer — for one thing, he was far too old. There was a minute possibility that he’d secretly indoctrinated his son with hatred and eugenic beliefs, and that Micah Barnett had grown up to become a killer. Yet it seemed so far-fetched. “This isn’t just about Albans, is it?” Ella asked shrewdly. “You’re not looking to prosecute him, are you?” “No,” said Cage. “The blatant abuse aside, the sterilizations were perfectly legal under Virginia law. But the reason we’re here is completely different. The good news is that I don’t think it involves your father either. We’ll be in touch if we need anything further from you.” 242

The Shadowed Mind As Dinah and Cage let themselves out, Dinah thought about what they were leaving behind — a beautiful house, the remnants of a devoted family now shattered beyond belief, a daughter’s identity within her family destroyed, and faith in her father now hanging by a tenuous thread.

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y the time Cage dropped Dinah off at her apartment, they’d both agreed that a killer lurking in the Barnett family seemed unlikely. The travel they’d done during the day had exhausted Dinah and she could barely find the energy to fix something for dinner. She made a sandwich and sat down with The Lost Boys, unable to shake an inexplicable feeling that the final clue they needed to find the killer was contained within the book. She immersed herself in the world of Albans, torturous as it was to read. She glanced through the photographs again, matching the names listed with the faces. For each name and face she matched, she racked her brains trying to think of any connection to the case. Then she stopped and squinted at a photograph of all of the guards who’d worked at Albans, together with the warden. She picked out 244

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John Barnett immediately. But there was another face that looked vaguely familiar. She searched the small print for the name and when she found it, she felt as though she’d been punched in the stomach. It couldn’t be! A terrible suspicion began to take shape in her mind, synapses firing frenetically. Of course it was possible — worse, it was entirely probable that she’d just stumbled across the identity of the killer. Dinah began to think about their clues. He was the right age and matched the physical description given by the staff at the Forest Glen Palliative Care Home. He could build rapport very easily with victims — she herself hadn’t once suspected him. The motive was becoming clearer in her mind, as she continued to think about it. She picked up her cell phone to call Detective Cage when it suddenly buzzed in her hand. She jumped, and answered. “It’s me,” Detective Cage said. He sounded strange. “I’ve got some news.” “Me, too,” Dinah said. “But you go first.” “I had a call from Ricky Srisai,” Cage said. Dinah thought for a few seconds, and then remembered that he was the martial arts master thought to be teaching illegal techniques. “He decided he should do the right thing, surprisingly, and tell me the name of the person to whom he’s been teaching the neck torsion maneuver. What’s your news?” “There is a photo of a guard in The Lost Boys,” said Dinah. “His face looked a little familiar. I looked up the name and it clicked.” “Hang on,” said Cage. “If he was a guard at Albans in the fifties, he would be too old to be the killer now.” “Right,” agreed Dinah. “But his son would be the perfect age.” There was a pause, and then Dinah said, “So what’s the name of the guy you’ve got? It’ll be interesting to see if it’s the same person.” Cage told her. Dinah gasped. “That’s the exact same guy I got from my reading,” she said. “Are you sure?” 245

A Dinah Harris Mystery “This changes everything,” Cage said. “I need to get a warrant for his arrest.” Dinah cleared her throat. “Listen, Cage, there’s something I haven’t told you.” “What is it?” Cage sounded wary. “I received a death threat from the killer,” Dinah said. Cage immediately sounded outraged. “What?” “It’s on a generic sympathy card,” Dinah said. “Just like the messages found on the victims. It quotes some legislation passed in Germany in the 1930s that targeted alcoholics. Underneath the message, it says that I’m next.” “You need to be very careful,” warned Cage. “Particularly now that we know who the killer is. I can get this warrant organized pretty quickly, and then I’ll be over to pick you up. Are all your doors and windows locked?” “Yes,” Dinah said. “But I no longer have a weapon.” “Okay,” Cage said. “Hold tight and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Dinah hung up and re-checked the doors and windows. At least now she knew for who she was looking. Silently she promised to bring the killer down. ****

The Senate met late into the night. David Winters had been working hard, almost feverishly, to ensure his liberal party colleagues would support him. Despite the best efforts of Jerry Devine, the conservative Senator, the Health Reform Bill was simply too large and complex for the media to realize what was contained therein. The president had supported Winters’ suggestion of reconciliation in the Senate — he was desperate to spend some time with his family on Martha’s Vineyard and would have agreed to anything if it meant the bill would be passed. Of course, Winters knew that he wouldn’t be able to hide his provision forever. There were entire conservative organizations dedicated to slowing down society’s progress. But even they were preoccupied at the moment with the prospect of government-funded abortion. And so the Senate met late, with the sole intention of passing the bill. 246

The Shadowed Mind David Winters sat anxiously, his leg bouncing up and down as the process began. He’d spent countless hours with the Senate parliamentarian, a supposedly bi-partisan, independent professional, and his staff of lawyers, explaining exactly why his part of the bill should not be changed. Thankfully, most of his opponents didn’t realize it was even there, and he didn’t face any serious resistance. And so his first order of business had been completed: the parliamentarian agreed not to rule his provision out of order. Next, the presiding officer must agree with the parliamentarian to allow the language to remain in the bill. The presiding officer was usually a senator, but could be the vice president, who could technically overrule the parliamentarian. The senator acting as presiding officer was a liberal, and easily persuaded by David Winters to agree with the Senate parliamentarian’s ruling. There was no Senate debate about this decision, one of the positives about the reconciliation process. The conservatives sat, whispering to each other, knowing that something was amiss. Then it was simply a matter of the Senate voting and the majority winning. The absolute best part of reconciliation, thought David Winters, was that it prohibited a filibuster — which allowed a minority of 41 senators to block legislation. So the vote was held — and Winters achieved 51 votes. It was done. The Health Reform Bill, including the provision that allowed euthanasia to gain an unprecedented foothold, was passed. After midnight, when the Senate disbanded, Senator Winters found a quiet corridor and immediately phoned the leader of the Movement, Eddie Sable. “It’s all done,” he said, when the other man answered, still half-asleep. Sable perked up. “The bill has been passed in the Senate?” “Yes, tonight. I expect the money to appear in my account in the morning,” Winters said. Sable laughed. “Of course. I must say, there were times when I thought even you wouldn’t be able to pull this off.” “You shouldn’t underestimate me,” said the senator softly. “That would be a very bad idea.” Sable didn’t seem to hear him. He enthusiastically went on, “We all honestly thought it would be a long shot.” 247

A Dinah Harris Mystery “Sable, just wire me the money. You understand?” said Senator Winters frostily and hung up. He turned to leave and almost walked into the giant bulk of Senator Jerry Devine. “Excuse me,” he snapped. Devine gave him a lazy smile. “I should’ve known you didn’t do it for purely political reasons,” he said. He stood slightly taller than Winters and used it to his advantage as he glared at the other man. “What are you talking about?” Winters asked, using all of his energy to sound disinterested. “Who’s paying you this time?” Devine wanted to know. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” Winters looked coolly at his counterpart. Jerry Devine snorted. “Okay, so I’m supposed to believe it’s not unusual for a United States Senator who crams through a Health Reform Bill that will change the entire scope of American health care under the reconciliation process — which is highly unusual and somewhat improper in my opinion — and then calls a mystery person immediately afterward in the middle of the night to demand money. Gee, I know I’m just a Texan, but even I can tell that something ain’t right here.” Winters suppressed an urge to punch the senator in the nose, just as he used to do at the exclusive boys’ school where he reigned supreme as the class bully. “How do you know I wasn’t talking to my wife?” he said calmly. “You sure do jump to some wild conclusions, Devine. In any case, you’ll have to prove any accusation you make, and I’d like to see that.” Devine just smiled. “Guess you’d better watch your back, Winters.” They smiled icily at each other, and then Devine lumbered off down the hallway. Winters actually felt a stab of fear. A threat from a United States senator, even a conservative Texan, was not to be treated lightly. He began to think. It was virtually impossible to simply get rid of Devine. Had he been a normal member of society, then perhaps he’d get away with it. Annoyingly, when a senator died under unusual circumstances, the government liked to organize investigations and inquiries. 248

The Shadowed Mind However, Edward Sable and the members of the Movement were held under no such protection. And if the money was ever traced, it would be because they hadn’t been discreet enough. A plan began to form in Winters’ mind. He didn’t like them anyway; they were a means to an end. Once they’d wired him the money, he would forever be tied to them, with the possibility of blackmail hanging over his head. He remembered the idea he’d once had of burning that stupid log cabin where they met to the ground. The idea appealed to him. It would be a tragic, terrible accident. He smiled and left the building with a renewed sense of confidence. ****

Ella Barnett had emerged from paralyzing shock and had now moved to anger. She was mute with fury and so she completed the tasks required of her silently, seething. She couldn’t stand living in the same house as a man whom she’d thought of as a hero her whole life, only to find out it was all a lie, and worse, that he was the complete opposite of a hero. She continued to help him dress, bathe him, make his meals, and ensure he was safe. But she no longer engaged him with speech or song, as she once had. She answered his questions with terse monosyllables. Though in all honesty, he probably didn’t notice. Her anger had transcended the frustration that caused her to lash out only a few weeks before — she was now icily calm, to the point of scaring those who knew her. The devastating sadness had passed, leaving behind a fury that was terrible in its complete consumption of her. She’d found a nursing home that had agreed to take her father on short notice. The cost was astonishingly astronomical, but she agreed. Then she phoned her brother, Micah, to tell him. “I’ve found a home for Dad,” she informed him, her words curt. “What?” he said. “I thought we’d agreed that the best place for him was at home.” “That was before I knew he was a child-abusing, sadistic freak,” replied Ella, her voice brittle and high-pitched. There was a loud crash as Micah dropped the phone, then silence. Finally, he said in a strangled voice, “What on earth are you talking about?” 249

A Dinah Harris Mystery Ella told him, with a choice selection of verbs, what she had discovered about their father. There was more silence as Micah tried to digest this information. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Our father? I just can’t believe it.” “Well, yesterday I sat in the living room with two detectives who’d read the story themselves,” said Ella. “So believe it.” “This book you read; what’s it called again?” Micah asked. “The Lost Boys. In it, you’ll find a fascinating collection of games our father invented to torment the boys in his care by pitting them against each other,” explained Ella. Her voice, on the edge of breaking with every word, was the indication of her boiling, raging fury, together with the unusual sarcasm that was not normally part of her personality. “Followed by explanations of wonderfully creative punishments our father invented, including solitary confinement for boys under the age of ten. And you won’t be able to put down the section that deals with the involuntary sterilization of teenagers!” After a pause, Micah said carefully, “Are you okay, Ella?” “I’m perfectly wonderful,” she retorted. “Why do you ask?” Micah wanted to answer that his gentle, unassuming, mild sister had turned into an angry, sarcastic, bitter person whom he’d never met before. But he could understand why she wasn’t doing so well. “I’ll come out as soon as I can,” he promised. “I’ll help you settle Dad in and we can . . . talk. About, you know . . . well, we’ll just talk.” “Sounds delightful,” Ella said. She spent the next few hours packing what her father would need for his new home, according to the list the nursing home had given her. Once, she might have approached this task with care and concern, wanting to include things that might comfort him. Now, she threw it all together with hapless abandon, barely even registering what she was doing. When she had finished packing, she strapped her father into the car and loaded it with his suitcases. He asked her where they were going. She didn’t reply. Once they’d arrived at Bentleigh Episcopalian Nursing Home, she took her father to the reception and announced their arrival. One nurse helped John Barnett into a wheelchair and took his suitcases to settle him into his new room. The other nurse gave Ella the paperwork 250

The Shadowed Mind to fill out. She looked at Ella’s stony face and her fragile words, and asked, “Are you okay?” Ella glanced up from the clipboard. “I’m just wonderful.” She smiled a fake, disturbing grimace. The nurse backed away. Ella finished the paperwork with ruthless efficiency, and the nurse then showed her to the room where her father now sat in an armchair, watching television. Ella looked through the closets and drawers to make sure everything had been put away correctly. She sat on the bed, to make sure it was comfortable. She checked that her father could access the dining room and game room easily. She checked that there were no stairs nearby to fall down or windows from which to climb out. She checked that the nursing station would be able to hear him if he fell or needed them in some way. Finally, when there was nothing left to do, she looked at John Barnett. He was engrossed in I Love Lucy. She chewed on her lip, and then said, “I’ve got to go, Dad. Are you okay here?” He looked up at her. “I’ll come home later, dear,” he said. She thought of telling him that he wouldn’t be coming home, but then decided it wasn’t her problem anymore. She knew that she should kiss him or at least give him a hug, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that. So she simply waved at him and left. She nodded to the nurses on the way out who exchanged puzzled glances. In the car, she drove in the opposite direction to her house. She drove to Fort Stevens Park, where the picnic tables and walking tracks were deserted mid-week. She parked her car and made sure that all the windows were rolled up. Then Ella threw back her head and screamed at the roof of the car, a wild howl full of the emotion she’d been reserving for a week. She pounded the steering wheel in rage. And finally, the tears came. She sobbed like she hadn’t since she’d been a small child. When she had calmed down slightly, she stared through the windshield unseeing. What was she going to do with the disgust and guilt and hatred that festered in her heart like open sores? How could she think of her family in the same way again? How could she even begin to deal with this colossal betrayal? ****

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A Dinah Harris Mystery Dinah stood at the picture window in her living room, looking down at the street. From this vantage point, she could see cars as they swept along and people who might approach her apartment building. In the past, when her depression had been at its zenith, she’d fantasized that she could transport herself into becoming one of the people walking along the street, or joining one of the families in the cars that drove by. Anything, she’d reasoned, had to be better than the world in which she’d existed. Such dark thoughts were kept largely at bay these days, though recently they’d been replaced by other negative thoughts. The case was affecting her, because the message the killer sought to tell was so personal. She saw Detective Cage’s car turn into the street and drive cautiously, searching for a parking space. Dinah laughed to herself. Other detectives might park illegally, reasoning that they were on police business, but not Detective Cage. He seemed to follow the rules absolutely. Dinah watched Cage finally find a spot, then climb out of the car and approach the front doors of her apartment building. When he buzzed, she let him in. The first thing Cage wanted to look at was the threatening card Dinah had received from the killer. He stared at it carefully, turning the generic sympathy card over, reading it several times. “So listen,” he said, at length. “Are you still convinced as to the identity of the killer?” “Yes,” said Dinah emphatically. “Are you?” Cage held up a sheaf of papers. “Here is the search warrant.” Dinah felt a familiar thrill course through her veins. “Then let’s get him!” They walked down to the unmarked police vehicle, talking about how they would execute the warrant. Detective Cage had organized for the uniforms to meet them at the house in which the killer lived. A search warrant was a huge task and needed many hands, but more importantly, the uniforms would make sure that the killer couldn’t escape. Dinah climbed into the car and waited for Detective Cage to buckle up and start the engine. Then she suddenly felt the cold steel kiss from the mouth of a gun press behind her ear. Her stomach dropped and turned cold, and she stiffened, eyes wide. 252

The Shadowed Mind Cage glanced over her quizzically, and then saw the gun. He jerked around in the seat, trying to simultaneously reach for the gun and lunge at the killer, but he was hampered by his seat belt. “Easy, tiger,” said a familiar voice, soothingly. “You try and touch me, your pretty companion will get a bullet into her pretty brain.” Cage relaxed slightly and held his hands up to indicate he understood. “Give me your gun,” instructed the killer, still as calmly as if they were discussing something they’d watched on television. Cage complied. Dinah wanted to turn around, to face her attacker, to match the voice to the name. The killer seemed to sense this. “You know who I am?” he sneered. “You want to look?” Dinah clenched her teeth. “I know who you are.” “Well, you don’t really know me,” he said. “You know a character I’ve been playing. So turn around. Just don’t try anything stupid.” Dinah turned to look at the killer and saw that her instincts had been right. She was looking into the cool, gray-blue eyes of Dr. Nelson Sharp. He looked very different to the dapper university professor he’d portrayed during their research. He no longer wore trendy glasses, for one thing. Dinah realized that the trendy glasses had stopped her from realizing that his eyes were indeed cold and flat and unusual, more silvery-gray than blue, as described by various witnesses. His dark hair was no longer fashionably spiked, and the expensive clothing had been replaced by nondescript jeans and T-shirt. They were only cosmetic changes, but he did look very different from the person they’d met at the university. “So,” said Sharp, “where were you headed just now?” “Just down to police headquarters,” Cage said casually. “We were going over some evidence.” Sharp snorted contemptuously. “Do I look like an idiot?” Cage didn’t reply. Sharp suddenly pressed the gun harder against Dinah’s head, forcing her forward. “Do I look like an idiot?” he repeated. “No,” muttered Cage. “So I don’t think you were going to police headquarters,” said Sharp. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’ll be alone where we’re going.” Dinah prayed that this would be Sharp’s home, where half a dozen 253

A Dinah Harris Mystery police cars waited for them. However, as Cage followed Sharp’s instructions, it became clear they wouldn’t be going to Sharp’s home. They headed in the opposite direction, to the same part of the city where Sharp trained with martial arts teacher Ricky Srisai. Dinah’s heart sank as she stared out at the neighborhood. Any people on the streets in these parts wouldn’t be particularly bothered that a cop and an ex-FBI agent were in danger. Nor would they feel inclined to call for help. We are truly on our own, thought Dinah bleakly, except, perhaps, for divine intervention. Sharp had Cage stop the car outside a small industrial building. He opened the roller door with a remote control and then instructed Cage to drive inside. It was very dark inside the building and Dinah blinked frantically, trying to understand their surroundings. It didn’t seem to be set up for a business. There were some industrial tools and some furniture scattered around the bare concrete space. “Welcome to my workshop,” said Dr Sharp, motioning the two investigators out of the car. Dinah realized that the workshop probably contained tins of polyurethane furniture finish and that this was where the flakes found in the van and on the body of Ashleigh Colter had originated. Sharp turned on a bright overhead fluorescent light and motioned the two investigators to sit down on two bare pine chairs. He smiled at them jovially. “Here is where you will die.”

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o you’re the big man, are you?” demanded Dinah, her tone like vinegar. “Choosing weak, vulnerable victims who can’t fight back!” Sharp just laughed. “You could just call me evolution’s best friend. I help speed things along when the natural process takes too long.” “Why should you have that power in your hands?” Dinah asked. “Why shouldn’t I? I am one of the stronger of my species,” replied Sharp. “I’m free of ill-health, educated, self-reliant. I’m an example of what the human race should be.” “Man, there is something really wrong with you,” said Cage, shaking his head. Sharp’s calm veneer slipped a tiny bit and the expression of pure rage and hatred Dinah saw there for a nanosecond made her go cold all over. 256

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“You must have thought it was hilarious that we were coming to you to get advice on the killer, knowing all along that it was you,” said Dinah. “Did that give you some sick pleasure?” “It was ironic,” agreed Sharp, his slate eyes glinting. “But yes, I did find it amusing.” “Was it amusing to get rid of your victims? Did you laugh as you stood over the bodies of Lakeisha, Benjamin, Ashleigh, and Billy?” Cage asked. Sharp looked intently, seriously, at the detective. “No, I derive no pleasure from the killings. I didn’t do it for myself. I did it for the good of society.” “I know you’re dying to tell us,” Dinah said dryly. “What do you mean, the good of society?” Sharp stood and began to walk around the workshop rubbing his hands together. “You might be interested to know that my father was a guard at the Albans Orphanage Asylum.” “With John Barnett?” Cage guessed. “Right. Barnett taught him everything,” Sharp said. “My father was a willing student. And they had legislation on their side, of course. My father helped carry out the sterilizations of those boys. He passed what he learned down to me.” “Charming,” muttered Cage. “They were right, you know,” announced Sharp. “My father went on to become a guard at the Wallens Ridge State Prison. He had all of his beliefs cemented while he was there, believe me. That prison was full of some of the most uneducated, imbecilic, drug-addled sorry excuses for human beings you’ll see anywhere. My father believed society is better to get rid of them rather than waste resources keeping them locked up.” That’s the difference, thought Dinah. John Barnett had become a Christian at some point, and his faith had taught him that human beings all have intrinsic value and worth. Sharp’s father, the one she’d seen in the photograph of the guards in The Lost Boys, had in the midst of the bleakest conditions sunk deeper into his vile theories. “So what stopped him from bumping off a prisoner here and there?” Dinah asked sarcastically. 257

A Dinah Harris Mystery Sharp ignored the jibe and said, “You have to get them earlier, before they start wasting resources, before they even get picked up by the police.” “I see,” said Dinah. “What about Benjamin? He wasn’t going to prison. Neither was Ashleigh, and certainly not Billy.” “It’s not just those that break the law,” explained Sharp loftily. “It’s the diseased, disabled, and pathetic, too.” “You do realize that you’ve joined the ranks of those who’ve broken the law?” Cage inquired. “That’s different,” Sharp snapped. “So how did your father feel when the sterilization laws were repealed?” asked Dinah. “He was disappointed,” conceded Sharp. “Civilization was the verge of doing something vital to its own survival. Imagine how much better off we’d be in even one more generation if society had adhered to this vital eugenic concept.” “Have you even heard of the Holocaust?” Dinah asked. “You think that was a progressive society?” Sharp simply shrugged. “As a result of the changes to legislation, my father taught me that we had to take matters into our own hands. I’m not going to stand idly by while society self-destructs because the ignorant and poor are out-breeding the educated, while institutions are crowded and taxpayer funds are being eaten up by defective, diseased individuals and our health system is struggling under the weight of conditions self-imposed by drug addicts and alcoholics.” He looked pointedly at Dinah as he finished. Cage laughed. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. You should visit the million-dollar mansions in Kalorama Heights and see how many of their kids are taking ecstasy every weekend. Or visit Wall Street and see how many high-flying professionals use cocaine just to get through the week. The rich and educated know how to get in trouble just as well as the poor and marginalized do. They just manage to hide it better.” Sharp’s face was flushed. Viciously, he said, “I must have forgotten to mention that he also taught me that Africans aren’t much more than half-evolved apes!” Cage remained composed, although Dinah wanted desperately to give the professor a good smack. “If you’re trying to get a reaction 258

The Shadowed Mind out of me,” he said calmly, “you won’t. I’ve heard much worse in my time.” “Actually, Dr. Sharp,” added Dinah, “if you’d bothered to do any decent research, you’d realize how ridiculous that statement is. Racial characteristics such as skin shade account for only a very small percent of biological variation. So that kind of shoots down your theory, doesn’t it? If people with darker skin really were less evolved, there would be a greater degree of human biological variation.” Cage glanced over at Dinah and gave a brief smile. There was silence for a few moments. Then Sharp said, “Well, if you need any verification of eugenics, you need only look at Henry Black. He was one of life’s losers — drifting around on state welfare, in and out of prison, addicted to drugs. How much money did the state spend on him before he committed suicide? Too much. We should have taken care of the problem back at Albans.” Dinah felt herself grow hot and her vision darkened and tunneled so that she could only see Sharp. “Sterilization not enough for you?” she demanded acidly. “It’s not enough that a small boy was terrorized and traumatized by being beaten, humiliated, and abused at the hands of adults who were supposed to be taking care of him? It’s not enough that he loses both parents, and while still deep in grief and shock, is sent to a place not much better than hell? Do you think that maybe if he hadn’t experienced so much violence and trauma as a kid that he might’ve turned out okay? Did you ever think that his experience at Albans played a role in contributing to Henry’s shiftlessness, drug addiction, and suicide? If that boy had remained living with his parents, or at least with a loving family, he might have been fine. Instead, his life was wasted by hateful, selfish, horrible adults. You make me sick. I’m ashamed to be sitting in the same room as you, breathing the same air as you.” Sharp had become very still. Dinah could almost see the latent violent force idling in his arms as he approached her. “You worthless drunk,” he spat. “I’m going to enjoy killing you.” Dinah stared straight into his cold eyes. “You think you can intimidate me? I am not scared of you.” Cage hastily intervened, seeing that Sharp was about to lose control. “So when did you spend time in Thailand?” he asked. 259

A Dinah Harris Mystery Sharp flexed his shoulders and seemed to be inwardly fighting for calm. Finally he took his eyes off Dinah and replied, “I taught over there for seven years.” “Is that where you learned Lerdrit?” Cage continued, shooting a warning glance at Dinah, trying to caution her against provoking the professor. “Yes,” said Sharp, resuming his pacing around the room. “You have to admire a martial art that can kill a man in less than four moves. There is something about living in an impoverished country. It’s like watching evolution in action, right before your eyes. They have to fight to survive, and the strong flourish. It galvanized me into action. I came back to America at times and I saw the streets full of people not willing to help themselves, supported by the American people, wasting their lives. Put them on the harsh streets of Bangkok and they wouldn’t last five seconds. So while I was still in Thailand, I started to formulate my plan.” “Lerdrit was part of that?” “Right. I use a gun, you people can trace them, use ballistics and so forth. I use a knife and you can match blade marks and velocity arcs and left- or right-handedness. Then there is blood spatter and having to clean up. Frankly, needless violence turns me off. The techniques taught in Lerdrit are quick, efficient, and effective. There is no need to spill blood. It leaves behind virtually no clues. You need only learn how to control your strength and energy. So I suppose Lerdrit was a very big part of my plan.” “Did you know that we met Ricky Srisai?” Cage asked. Sharp flinched, a tiny motion he almost succeeded in hiding. “One of the few masters here in the States who is willing to teach the authentic Lerdrit techniques.” Cage just stared at Sharp, willing the other man to buckle and ask if his master had betrayed him. Sharp simply stared coolly back at the big detective. Finally, Dinah said, “And what do you do here in this workshop? Do you use polyurethane furniture finish?” “Yes, it’s a hobby,” confirmed Sharp. “Why?” “You left flakes of polyurethane all over Ashleigh Colter’s body and through the van you used. We found the van, obviously, at the airport.” 260

The Shadowed Mind Sharp shrugged. “I thought you would eventually. Matching polyurethane flakes has to be pretty circumstantial evidence, wouldn’t you say?” “What made you decide to begin your killing spree now?” asked Cage curiously. “I mean, I get that you wanted to master Lerdrit, but what made you choose to begin now?” Sorrow filled the other man’s otherwise soulless eyes. “My father died, and I made a promise to him on his deathbed that I would carry on the traditions that he’d taught me. I’d already planned what I would do; I was waiting for his blessing.” Dinah just smiled at him. “Why don’t you tell me about Billy?” Sharp turned away. “What about him?” “I want to know why you couldn’t go through with it,” said Dinah. “Even you, a cold-blooded killer, couldn’t break poor defenseless Billy’s neck, could you?” Sharp chewed furiously on the side of his cheek for a moment. “I found out that I didn’t need to,” he said. “Billy was already looking for ways to commit suicide. Our society would be so much better if everyone in his position felt as he did. So I helped him.” “How compassionate and thoughtful of you,” snorted Dinah. “Other human beings might talk to Billy, get some counseling for him, and get him involved in activities so that he wasn’t so lonely. Not you. No, you decide that suicide is exactly what he needs and you help him do it.” “I would’ve helped you do it, too,” said Sharp cruelly. Dinah tried to tamp down her anger, knowing that another outburst might lead to some unpleasantness from Sharp. She hadn’t even figured out how they were going to get out of this alive yet. “So how is this going to end, Sharp?” Cage asked quietly. Sharp considered. “It doesn’t end, don’t you see? It can’t end. I’ll keep going until I die or am sent to jail. How can I live in a society that is sliding backward without doing something about it?” “You know,” said Dinah, “you won’t change society. You could kill a person every week and it wouldn’t change a thing. The only person capable of changing our society is God.” “Oh, right,” said Sharp derisively. “God wants us to treat everyone with compassion and charity. That’s going to move our society forward.” 261

A Dinah Harris Mystery “That’s because we’re all created in God’s image,” Dinah said. “Every human being has intrinsic value in God’s eyes, even those who are homeless or disabled or weak.” Sharp rolled his eyes. “I didn’t know you’d joined in and become a God-botherer.” “Does God bother you, Professor?” Dinah asked smirking. “If I believed in one, I suppose he might,” replied Sharp. “What really bothers me are the backward Christians who insist that we shouldn’t use all our technological and scientific advances because human life is somehow special.” “As I said,” answered Dinah wearily. “Because we are created in God’s image, we have an eternal spirit. That makes us very different from every animal on the planet.” Sharp narrowed his eyes at her. “Whatever. Is your God going to save you from me, now?” Dinah shrugged. “That’s up to Him.” Sharp suddenly chuckled. “Do you realize how ironic, how perfect it is, that you will become my next two victims? On one hand, I have a worthless alcoholic who will pass her addiction genes down to any children so that the cycle is never finished.” Beautiful Sammy’s face flashed before Dinah, her sweet, boisterous little boy who hadn’t lived long enough to find out if he’d inherited her addiction. She flushed hot and her vision darkened with anger. Nobody brings my son into this. “On the other hand,” continued Sharp. “I have a fine example of an inferior race, riding the ladder of evolution much slower than the white man.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” snapped Dinah. “If you’re going to spew forth hatred, at least try to make it accurate. There are no ‘races.’ I’d have thought that someone as educated as you would know that more and more scientists are finding that the differences between us are cultural, not racial, and that the term ‘race’ should be abandoned because it’s meaningless.” Sharp looked at them both with such contempt that it filled the room with its noxious presence. “You know what? I’ve had enough of your blabbing. I’ve got other things to do than mindlessly debate with a moron.” 262

The Shadowed Mind He flexed his knuckles and Dinah, grasping the gravity of their situation, tried to think. Sharp had a weapon and was skilled in martial arts. Dinah and Cage were unarmed and less skilled, but outnumbered him. Dinah sensed Cage thinking the same thing. As Sharp approached her, still pointing the gun directly at her chest, she could almost feel the imminent violent energy from it coursing through his body. Then Sharp opened his mouth to speak, Dinah jumped to her feet, and Cage rushed at the professor. And chaos erupted. ****

What Cage lacked in weaponry and martial arts knowledge, he made up for in size and strength. Outweighing the professor by 50 pounds, he launched himself directly at Sharp and knocked the man backward off his feet. Sharp slid backward on the ground, but he didn’t lose his grip on the gun. With reflexes honed by years of training, he pressed the trigger, and the room erupted with a deafening explosion. Cage cried out, clutched at his leg, and collapsed on the ground. Dinah had been rendered frozen by the gunshot and in horror saw blood coming from underneath Cage’s hand, pressed to the wound in his thigh. Sharp smiled, climbed to his feet, and moved closer to the detective to finish the job. Dinah knew she had to act. She threw herself at Sharp just as he prepared to shoot. Startled, he turned toward her and she landed on him with her arms grasping his shoulders. With a fierce yell, she used every ounce of strength to kick, hit, and scratch at him. Sharp cursed, and with deceptive power, threw her off him. She landed squarely against a wall, and the blow to her head stunned her. A heavy feeling settled itself over her limbs, a roaring sound filled her ears, and her vision sparkled, shimmered, and blurred. Blinking furiously to clear her head, she could see the two shadowy figures, one standing over the other, and she saw Sharp raise his hand and slam the butt of the gun into Cage’s head. The detective slumped and was still. An urgent, distant voice in her head told her she must move. But her limbs felt like they weighed at least a hundred pounds each and 263

A Dinah Harris Mystery she tried and failed to stand. Yet she knew that the insistent voice was right. Shaking her head to free it from shadowy cobwebs, she halfslithered and half-crawled in what she thought was the direction of the door. Thankfully, she seemed to gather more clarity with every passing moment, and her vision began to clear. But she was too slow, and Sharp roughly grabbed her arm and pushed her back against the wall. Dread poured through her veins like dry ice. This couldn’t be how it ended! He smiled bleakly at her. “Nice try. I think I already told you that neither of you are any match for me.” He pointed the gun at her forehead. Time stood still. Dinah’s senses were hyper-alert. She could see the mad fire dancing in Sharp’s gray eyes. She could see the individual droplets of sweat standing in stark relief on his upper lip. She could smell copper in the air from the blood pooling beneath Cage’s leg. She could taste her own fear, heavy and bitter. She could hear herself, imploring distantly as if from another place: “Please, no, God, please, no!” She could hear the inexorable scrape of steel against steel as Sharp drew back the trigger. She closed her eyes. It’s funny what flashes through your brain when you realize you’re about to die, thought Dinah. In equal measure, she saw the good that she’d accomplished together with the mistakes she’d made. She saw the faces of her dead husband and son and heard their musical laughter. She felt a tiny, chubby hand on her arm, and a bigger, stronger hand on her shoulder. She could almost feel their presence right next to her. She saw the first flicker of hope in a young gang member’s life as he saw a future that didn’t have to be filled with murder and fear. She saw the memory of the joint funeral she’d held for Luke and Sammy, staring in disbelief at the tiny coffin of her son. She saw herself passed out in the living room, a vodka bottle rolled carelessly next to her. She felt the chasm of self-hatred swallow her when she awoke from her stupor and realized what she’d done. She felt the stark, crushing isolation her life had become. 264

The Shadowed Mind And then she saw the bright star of redemption. She felt the seed of hope flower in her chest, the sudden sensation of relief and the wonder of finally belonging. God saved me. I am a child of God. I am not alone! Then — a huge silhouette holding a plank. A sudden rush of air, a dense thud, a grunt of pain. Another shocking explosion as the gun fired. Dinah’s ears rang and her vision went black. It seemed that she was floating in suspension, unable to see, hear, touch, smell, or taste anything. She didn’t understand what had happened. Had she been shot? Why couldn’t she feel it? I must have died. “Dinah! Talk to me, please! Are you okay?” Well, that’s stupid, thought Dinah. If I’m dead then surely God would know whether I was okay or not! She opened her eyes and saw the sweetly familiar face of Cage leaning over her, anxiety written all over his face. As the realization that she was alive and probably hadn’t been shot dawned on her, her thoughts swam into focus. “What happened?” she asked, sitting up with shaking hands and looking around wildly. Sharp lay prostrate on the concrete floor, a blood-encrusted twoby-four plank next to him. Suddenly Dinah remembered that Cage had been shot and struck in the head. Frantically, she turned to him. “Your leg!” she exclaimed. “How. . . ?” He had fallen back to the floor, grimacing. Dinah saw that he was very pale. He’d been hit just above his temple, and there was a short, vicious wound there. “I guess I just did what I had to do,” he said. “I saw Sharp about to shoot you and I had to do something.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s a miracle.” He pushed his cell phone over to her. “Do you mind calling backup? I don’t seem to have much energy left.” He lay back and closed his eyes. Dinah called the paramedics, too. ****

Detective Samson Cage had been injured more severely than anyone realized. The leg wound had missed his femoral artery by a 265

A Dinah Harris Mystery millimeter, miraculous in itself. The blow to his head above his temple, resulting in a subdural hematoma, should have rendered him unconscious and closer to death with every passing moment. Yet somehow he’d remained conscious and had been able to save Dinah’s life. Emergency surgery followed by an induced coma for several days meant that Dinah couldn’t visit Cage in the hospital. In the meantime, she learned that Dr. Nelson Sharp had not been injured badly and had confessed to the four murders. She spent several days giving her statement to the police and going over the entire case, matching her knowledge to Cage’s thorough and meticulous notes. Finally, Cage was well enough to receive visitors and she took a bunch of roses. Somehow, the hospital bed managed to diminish the big detective. He lay with his head swathed in bandages, machines still monitoring him with tubes and lines. For a moment, Dinah stood in the doorway, her breath caught in her throat, halfway between a nightmare and reality. Her husband had lain in a similar room, where doctors had worked feverishly to resuscitate him after the car accident. By the time Dinah had arrived at his room, it was too late and he was still and pale. She remembered that her heart had begun to crumble at that moment. This time, there was no mistaking Cage’s dark eyes moving, looking at her. “Detective Cage!” she exclaimed, moving to his bedside, her heart still hammering from her memory. “I’m so glad you’re okay.” “Hi,” he said weakly. “You’re okay?” “Yes, just a small bump on the back of my head,” Dinah said, arranging the roses inexpertly in the vase by the side of his bed. She cleared her throat awkwardly. She wasn’t very good at emotional scenes. “So, uh . . . just wanted to say thanks. For, you know, saving my life.” Cage’s eyes twinkled. “Anytime. Thank you for saving my life.” Dinah was a little startled. She hadn’t thought about that aspect — but of course, she had saved Cage’s life by throwing herself at Dr. Sharp as he moved over the fallen detective to finish him off. She wasn’t very good at realizing the good things she did. “Sharp in jail?” Cage asked. “Yes. I don’t think he’ll get bail, either,” said Dinah. “I believe he confessed to a colleague of yours.” 266

The Shadowed Mind “Great.” Cage licked his lips and rested for a few moments before he continued. “It was good . . . working with you. I’ll let my . . . bosses know.” Dinah smiled. Her reputation, so tarnished in the past, might now begin the long road to recovery. “Thank you. Can I ask another favor of you, since you’re helpless right now and can’t refuse?” she asked. “Sure.” “Will you think about what you’ve learned during this case?” Dinah suggested. “I know it’s been a lot to take in, but I want you to know that I believe in God and His Word with all of my being. He has completely changed my life and for the first time in a long time, I have hope for the future. I know I’m not a perfect person; I’m a redeemed person.” “Okay, Dinah, I’ll do that,” promised Cage. “Do you have family coming to see you?” Dinah asked “My wife is coming,” said Cage, closing his eyes for a few moments. “I didn’t know you were married!” said Dinah. “You don’t talk about yourself much.” “I guess not,” agreed Cage. “It hasn’t worked out in the past.” Dinah was curious but didn’t push him. She was distracted by the door opening, and a tall, regal black woman with stunning cheekbones entered. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Emily Cage.” “I’m Dinah Harris.” “Oh, how lovely to meet you,” Emily said as she smiled. “My husband has told me so much about you.” Dinah said uncomfortably, “Uh, yes. I’ve heard . . . uh, a lot about you, too.” Emily laughed, a rich throaty sound that seemed to bubble up from deep inside her. “I doubt that. Why don’t we have a word outside?” she suggested. “Samson needs to rest.” Dinah squeezed Cage’s hand and told him goodbye. Out in the hall, Emily took Dinah’s hand and said, “Thank you so much for saving my husband’s life. You have no idea what that means to me.” “Well,” said Dinah. “He saved my life, too, you know.” “I know Samson won’t have mentioned me to you,” Emily Cage said. “There is good reason for that.” 267

A Dinah Harris Mystery “Well, he doesn’t talk much about himself at all,” said Dinah. “I suppose he’s just a private person.” Emily smiled cryptically. “Well, not quite. Samson used to have a partner, in the police department. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how important that relationship is.” Dinah knew only too well. Partners became very close — witnessing terrible things together, counseling each other, watching out for each other, confiding in each other. It was a different relationship than a marriage, but it had an intimate dynamic nonetheless. “Samson and his partner, Dan, had been together in Vice for ten years,” Emily explained. “They were as close as best friends, you know. We had Dan’s family over for barbecues and often for Thanksgiving. A couple of years ago, an informant fingered Dan for being corrupt and taking bribes. Samson refused to believe that his good friend Dan could be corrupt and didn’t do anything about it, apart from telling Dan, who laughed it off. A few months later they were ambushed by a drug gang and Dan only just escaped from being badly hurt, thanks to Samson. My husband was starting to realize that something was wrong and spoke to his superiors about it. An investigation was launched; Dan was found out and charged, with the very real possibility of spending some hard time in jail. While Dan was out on bail he decided to get revenge on Samson by killing me in front of him, and then killing Samson.” Dinah gasped, horrified. “Thankfully, Dan had consumed a few drinks to work up some courage, and his miserable plan failed. Samson was transferred into Homicide. Ever since then, he has refused to work with a partner. When he’s forced to work in close quarters with a colleague, he tells them absolutely nothing of himself or his family. He has told me that he’ll never trust a partner again.” Dinah slowly shook her head. “I can imagine,” she murmured. “I know it must have been frustrating working with someone who was so closed,” Emily said. “But I hope you can understand. For what it’s worth, he spoke very highly of you.” Dinah nodded, suddenly strangely emotional. Emily rolled her shoulders and neck. “Anyway, I’m going to get a coffee. Do you want one?” 268

The Shadowed Mind “I’d better go home,” said Dinah. “I’ll say goodbye to Samson first.” Emily winked at her and strode off down the hall, leaving Dinah in her wake, feeling dazed. Dinah ducked back into Cage’s room. He looked over at her. “So you met Emily,” he said. “I did. She told me . . . about everything,” said Dinah. “I’m sorry that I gave you a hard time about it. I understand now.” Cage smiled. “It’s okay. It’s just hard to get over, you know?” He closed his eyes and waited a few moments. “Can you do something for me?” “Of course!” said Dinah. “What is it?” “I need some nail clippers,” he whispered. “I can’t stand having long nails.” Dinah remembered his short, perfect fingernails and laughed. In fact, she couldn’t stop laughing all the way down the corridor, out through reception, and into the parking lot.

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lla Barnett sat in her car, trying to control her tumultuous emotions. She had pulled up in the visitor parking lot of the nursing home. It had been over a week since she’d settled her father into the nursing home, and she hadn’t been back to visit him. She had spent the time in solitude, trying to understand how she felt and slowly packing up some of her father’s belongings. At first she threw items into boxes with a degree of anger, but over time the anger dissipated into misery. And then, by the grace of God, she’d found some very interesting letters. John Barnett had kept old letters written back and forth between himself and his then-girlfriend Charlotte. Ella had stayed up late into the night to read them. Their conversations painted a picture of their early romance, information to which Ella had never been privy. She realized that her 270

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parents hadn’t really talked much about how they’d met, except to say in a hospital. Ella now knew why. It began with a letter from Charlotte, explaining her refusal to date him. “John,” the letter read, “I realize that I may have sounded rude when I turned down your invitation to go for a drive. The ward was particularly busy at the time, but that’s no excuse. In any case, the reason I turned you down has more to do with the fact that I’m a Christian woman, and I will not date non-Christian men, as the Bible tells me it is unwise to be unequally yoked.” John’s reply was interesting. “How do you know I’m not a Christian?” “John, I know how those boys are treated under your care,” Charlotte wrote. “No Christian man would treat them so badly.” John had seemed to stew over these words for several months, for Charlotte sent another letter. “I’m worried about you. Deep down, I know that you can be a good man. I know that you know what you are doing is wrong. Can I pray for you?” John replied: “I’ve seen you work with the boys I bring into your hospital. You’re gentle and compassionate. But I am the warden of St. Albans and it’s a position of responsibility. Those boys have to respect me, or else it would turn into chaos.” “Those boys need love,” Charlotte had replied. “They don’t need beatings and cruelty. I’ll keep praying for you and for them.” John’s reply was short and terse. “I know what the boys need. I treat them just like my father treated me, and I turned out to be just fine.” “With respect,” Charlotte wrote, “I submit that you have not turned out to be just fine. You are full of hatred, anger, and violence. I feel enormously sorry for you, that your father beat you and that you were not shown an example of fatherly love. Taking out your anger at your father on children under your care doesn’t appear to make you feel any better, and it certainly does great damage to them.” Again, there was a period of silence. Then John wrote a short note. “You clearly disapprove of everything I am. Why are you being so nice to me?” 271

A Dinah Harris Mystery “I’m a Christian,” Charlotte wrote, simply. “Jesus Christ showed me what love is, to the extent that He died on the Cross for His enemies. Who am I, to do anything except follow His example? That’s why I treat you with love, not hate.” This seemed to shake John, who again replied shortly, “Jesus Christ is a swear word to me.” “I know, John, but He loves you anyway. As do I. I’ll keep praying for you.” There was another period of silence. Then, a probing note from Charlotte: “Is everything okay?” John wrote, “Please pray for me. I don’t know what to do anymore.” Charlotte seemed to leave him alone for some time, perhaps waiting on God for guidance. Then John wrote a pleading letter: “Please help me figure out what to do with this anger and hate I have inside me. You were right; taking it out on the boys is not helping. I feel like I’m living in a war zone.” Charlotte had written back extensively, explaining the Christian message of Christ surrendering His life on the Cross for human sin, despite living a perfect existence. She urged John to accept this free gift of salvation and great love, and to turn his life around. “You will come to realize that in the face of such great love,” she wrote, “that it’s impossible to continue living with the anger in your heart. God’s grace will change you.” “Will I have peace, as you do?” John wanted to know. “How can God forgive me for all that I’ve done here at St. Albans?” “God’s forgiveness knows no boundaries. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. If you are truly sorry, repent, and turn your back on what you’ve been doing, then God is finished with your past. Then you will have peace.” “Please tell me what to do.” “Accept God’s free gift of salvation, repent of your sin, turn away from your wrongdoings,” Charlotte wrote. “Give your life to the Lord to do with it what He will. Let God be in control of your life.” There was silence for a little while, which must have sent Charlotte crazy, Ella reflected. Finally, John wrote: “I am free! I have given my life to God and I have been saved! Praise God for your wise counsel, Charlotte.” 272

The Shadowed Mind According to further letters, John Barnett had resigned his position of warden at St. Albans, gone to church, and some six months later plucked up enough courage to ask Charlotte out on a date again. This time, she accepted. The rest was history. In one of his final letters, John wrote: “Charlotte, I am ashamed of my time at St. Albans, and for my anger, cruelty, and hatred. When I first met you, I was an awful person. The love you showed toward me and the boys changed me; it showed me what life could be. I can scarcely believe that God has forgiven me for all that, and even in His grace, allowed me to form a special friendship with you. I don’t deserve any of it. I can only promise that I will never again treat a human being the way I treated those boys. I will spend the rest of my life trying to make up for what I’ve done. Thank you for seeing in me something worth saving.” Ella knew that her mother’s influence had profoundly changed John Barnett into the father she’d always known. It was testimony to the power of God in a person’s life that he could change from a vicious, angry tormentor to a gracious, loving man. And yet, what could she do about the sadness that still draped her heart so heavily? ****

Finally, Ella took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. At reception, the nurse took one look at her and asked her if she was okay. Ella could only nod. She wondered what the nursing staff thought of her: every time they saw her, she was an emotional mess. At the doorway to her father’s room, she almost lost her nerve. She squared her shoulders, said a quick prayer, and opened the door. John Barnett was napping in his chair at the window, a warm rectangle of sunlight falling on his lap. Ella was glad he wasn’t awake. What she had to say, he wouldn’t understand anyway. She just needed to say it for her own sanity. She sat down quietly behind him and chewed on her lip for several moments. Finally she summoned up some courage to start. “Hi, Dad,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by earlier. I’m sorry I had to put you into this home, but I do think it’s for the best. Not just because of what’s happened, but because you are very sick. I 273

A Dinah Harris Mystery have been very angry at you, but I’ve come to see that it’s impossible being angry at someone who doesn’t even know who I am.” Ella stopped and thought for a moment. “I still can’t reconcile you as my father with the monster described in that book. It doesn’t seem real to me, but I know it must be true. I just don’t know how you could have done it. What sort of person were you, Dad? How could you have believed it to be acceptable to abuse and humiliate little boys? I guess I don’t understand how you could live this lie.” Tears filled her eyes at the thought and she stopped, trying to control herself. “I remember my childhood, Dad; it was idyllic. I remember that you were kind and gentle, you listened to me, and you encouraged me. Now I wonder if when you looked at me, whether you saw those young boys? Every memory I have is now stained by the knowledge of what you’ve done. I suppose that’s why you didn’t tell Micah or me. I suppose you knew that we would be disgusted with you. I hate to say that, but it’s true. I am disgusted, horrified, and sickened by what I read in that book.” Ella took some more time to compose herself. “Ultimately, this leads me to think of Mom. I know she was a wonderful woman — assuming she didn’t hide some terrible secret like you did.” Ella laughed wryly. “So she knew about you and what you’ve done. And she still married you. That says something about how much you changed, I guess.” John Barnett stirred, and Ella watched him quietly. When he settled, she continued. “Anyway, none of this makes any difference to the betrayal I felt when I discovered the truth. The question is what I do now with this knowledge. I am not strong enough to carry this around alone. So I asked God what I should do. The answer was pretty clear to me.” Ella felt tears welling again and looked up at the ceiling, exhaling. “God views sin as sin, no matter how we humans might rank it. All of us have fallen short in His eyes, no matter how much better we might think of ourselves compared to others. This sin has separated us from God with a chasm big enough that we’ll never be able to bridge it ourselves. God provided the only way that we could ever hope to reconcile our sinfulness with His Holiness. It was Jesus, who died on 274

The Shadowed Mind the Cross on our behalf, bearing the punishment for all our sins. He not only bore that terrible agony and pain, but also the wrath of the Father, who must punish sin because of His perfect and holy character. He defeated death on the third day, and offered to us all an olive branch — an offer of acceptance and salvation despite our weaknesses. It is a perfect solution that we need to do nothing for, except to accept. God’s forgiveness is so complete that He promises it is forgotten as soon as we repent. “I’m getting to the point. If God, who is perfect, holy, and just, is able to forgive us, then we should do the same. In fact, we are commanded to forgive others just as we have been forgiven. When I realized this, I discovered how I would handle this burden for the rest of my life.” John Barnett stirred again, but this time Ella plowed on, determined to finish. “I have to forgive you, Dad. Not to make myself feel better, but because that is the standard God requires of me. I’m a Christian, and I want to obey Him. And so, Dad, I forgive you for what you did to those boys before I was born. I understand you were a different person then, that you weren’t a Christian. I also understand that God Himself has forgiven you, too. I forgive you for it all.” Ella allowed her tears to fall freely. As she did so, her father opened his eyes. “Charlotte!” he exclaimed. “I’m so glad to see you.” He didn’t seem to realize, in this moment, that he was in the nursing home. He took Ella’s hand in his own. “I can’t seem to stop nodding off every five minutes these days,” he said. “I mustn’t be sleeping very well.” “You’ve been working too hard,” murmured Ella, knowing it was what her mother would have said. “Have I told you,” said John Barnett, “what a very special, wonderful woman you are? You truly saved me.” “I know,” whispered Ella. She held his hand as he dozed, a redeemed and forgiven man, until the shadows lengthened on the wall. ****

Senator David Winters treated himself to a lavish dinner at an exotic Turkish restaurant in the heart of Georgetown to celebrate the passing of the Health Care Reform Bill. He had checked his bank 275

A Dinah Harris Mystery account, and $250,000 had been deposited there that afternoon, courtesy of Eddie Sable and supporters at the Movement. Whether there would be a massive increase in the number of people wanting assisted suicide was not his concern; in fact, it never had been. He cared only that the society in which he played a part was progressive, unhindered by religious fanatics. He got sick of the talk about how human life was sacred. You only had to look around at the crack addicts in the gutter, the elderly abandoned in hospitals, and the mentally ill wandering the streets to realize that human life was not sacred. Winters vehemently wished he could get rid of all those sectors of the community without drawing the ire of the bleeding heart dogooders. Human life was random, accidental, and unremarkable. He glanced at his watch, waiting for his contact to arrive. Now that he had achieved Health Care Reform Bill success and the associated deposit into his bank account, he had turned his attention elsewhere. His campaign for the presidency wouldn’t begin for another two years, but in the meantime, he had a very good idea of what he wanted to legislatively change. “Sorry I’m late,” panted his contact, suddenly appearing at his side. “Sit down,” said Winters, waving at the chair opposite him. He watched the other person sit, trying to absorb as much as he could from his initial impressions. “Now, just tell me a bit about yourself.” “I represent a powerful international humanist organization,” the other person explained. “We’ve had success in other countries lobbying in areas such as separation of church and state, human rights, and freedom of expression. I heard through the grapevine that you might be looking for our services.” “Really,” said Winters guardedly. “What services do you provide, exactly?” “We have extensive experience in lobbying governments. We have a large network of contacts within media organizations that can publicize our latest reforms. We have high-profile supporters who are able to raise funds very quickly, if need be. We have writers and speakers who can produce the materials we need to distribute among the population.” Winters knew all of this. He was nothing if not a thoroughly prepared and meticulous individual. 276

The Shadowed Mind “Our support base is growing constantly. Secular humanism has all but replaced organized religion in the developed world, and we have become very powerful. I’m confident we can help you achieve what you are aiming for.” Winters considered this in silence for several moments. Secular humanism was a philosophy that embraced human reason and justice, and rejected supernatural and religious doctrine as the basis for morality and decision-making. Winters looked at his companion with hooded eyes. “What do your services cost?” “We simply require your public endorsement. You are an influential and significant individual in this culture. Your support would assist in cementing our presence here in the States.” Winters thought about it. “You don’t want financial assistance?” The contact smiled. “We would ask for your help with fundraising activities, if required.” Winters nodded. “What do you know about what I’m trying to do?” “I know only in broad terms that you want to further widen the separation between church and state.” “That is correct,” Winters confirmed. “There are two issues I want to resolve. The first is that recently the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit ruled that the phrase ‘under God’ in the Pledge of Allegiance does not violate the Constitution. The second is the refusal of the same court to remove the words ‘In God We Trust’ from our currency. Both are clear violations of the human rights of the secularist.” His companion watched him shrewdly. “That’s it?” “Isn’t that enough?” Winters demanded. “What about Christmas nativity scenes? Singing Christmas carols in shopping malls? Governmental funding of Christian ministries?” Winters pursed his lips. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted. “There is much we can help you with. What if I told you I have the capability to enlist some churches in your campaign?” Winters raised his eyebrows. “What? You can use Christians to fight against Christianity?” “There is no limit to what we can do. We have an extensive network within churches, as well.” 277

A Dinah Harris Mystery Winters ate in silence for a moment, then he said, “You know, I think we’ll get along just fine.” After the humanist contact had left, Winters finished his meal in blessed solitude. He was tempted to let himself think about what he could achieve with his humanist agenda, but first he had the small matter of those losers from the Movement to think about. Drumming his fingers on the table, he thought quickly. A solution surfaced in his mind, and he smiled. ****

When Dinah’s cell phone rang, she knew immediately who it would be. “Hello, Senator Winters,” she said warily. “Well, Dinah. Still among the land of the living?” he inquired. “No thanks to your efforts,” snapped Dinah. “How was the vodka?” Dinah didn’t reply. Senator Winters laughed. “I knew you’d drink it, you hopeless lush.” “Do you actually have a point to this call?” Dinah demanded. “Did you hear about the Health Care Reform Bill being passed in the Senate?” Winters asked. “I know you’ve become friends with those Christian fundamentalists, so I thought you might be interested to know that it was largely my contribution that got that bill through.” “What do you want, a slap on the back? Applause?” Dinah asked. “It’ll be thanks to my bill that when you’re an old drunk dying of cirrhosis in a hospital that we’ll be able to euthanize you before you waste any more valuable resources,” said Winters maliciously. “I only hope I’ll be around to see the day.” “I’m sure that first your murderous history will be discovered and you’ll spend the rest of your days rotting in a jail cell,” rejoined Dinah. “How’s that for a waste of resources?” “Oh, Dinah.” Winters laughed. “I’d forgotten how funny you are. That’ll never happen, because I’m strong and you’re weak. That means that I’ll win and you’ll lose.” “If you’re trying to scare me, you’re failing miserably,” Dinah said. 278

The Shadowed Mind “I’m rich and powerful,” snarled Winters, suddenly losing his composure for a second. “It should scare you.” Dinah remained silent. “I see you managed to catch a killer,” Winters said conversationally, after a beat. “A killer remarkably like you,” Dinah said. “Very little concern for human life, considered himself superior to everyone else.” “A man after my own heart,” Winters said. “Just a man, living out the rest of his life in jail,” Dinah said. “Like you should be.” “It’ll never happen,” snapped Winters. Then Dinah had an idea. “You know, I’ve got to change the way I think about you,” she said. “I think of you as an enemy but I have pretty clear instructions about how I’m supposed to treat you.” “Oh, here we go,” Winters said derisively. “Are you about to start some religious rant?” “I’m supposed to love my enemies, and turn the other cheek,” Dinah said. “If Jesus can do that while hanging in agony on the Cross, then surely I can follow His example. So from now on, Senator, I will treat you with love, not hatred.” Winters laughed. “That is the most nauseating thing I’ve ever heard.” “Second,” Dinah continued, undaunted, “God is just as concerned about the destination of your eternal spirit as anyone else’s. And so I am going to pray for your salvation every day. I pray that you will come to know the transforming power of Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross, just as I have.” Winters actually seemed stunned for a moment. Then he snarled, “You can pray for me, Dinah. In the meantime, I’ll continue to run this country.” Abruptly, he hung up. Dinah smiled. It was like she had poured hot coals on his head. ****

Captain Stuart Messina wiped his brow and stood back from the flames. The fellow firefighter standing next to him, Will Frost, trained the hose on a window where fire leaped up as though trying to escape its own inferno. 279

A Dinah Harris Mystery “This is too hot,” Stuart remarked. “My guess is accelerant,” agreed Will. “Can you smell gasoline or something like that?” “Not yet,” said Stuart, gulping down some water. “We’ll have to wait and. . . .” He was cut off by a loud cracking noise as the roof of the cabin collapsed. Sparks shot into the air and the flames began devouring the roof structure greedily. Stuart glanced around him. Thankfully it was a rural property and there were no other buildings nearby to which the fire could spread. The fire had been well out of control when his truck had arrived, and all they could do was lessen the time the fire raged. The building would be completely destroyed. The neighbors claimed that the cabin was mostly empty, and there had been no vehicles parked outside it. It was owned by a supermarket entrepreneur from DC who occasionally used it for vacations. Consequently, Stuart had not ordered a search-and-rescue. It would probably have been a moot point anyway, given the stage of the fire and the temperature. He doubted that anyone could have safely entered the cabin to mount an operation. The firefighters battled to control the blaze as the night wore on. Eventually, it began to die down and the intense heat began to dissipate. Six hours after their arrival, he finally allowed a team to enter what remained of the building to assess the damage. It didn’t take long for an alarmed shout to rise from the cabin like a startled bird. Stuart tensed, a second of dread filling his heart. He raced to the back, where his team had entered. Will Frost stood near what looked like a damaged fireplace built of stone. Worry etched lines on his blackened face. “What is it?” Stuart asked. Will pointed, and Stuart followed with his eyes. Lying near the fireplace were three bodies, unidentifiable due to the flames. There was no mistaking their human form. Stuart felt sick. “The neighbors said there wouldn’t be anyone home!” he exclaimed. “Captain, it doesn’t matter,” said Will. “The heat was too intense. There is no way we could have gotten in here to save them.” 280

The Shadowed Mind Professionally, Stuart knew this was true. But he never ceased to be gutted by the loss of human life. “Another thing,” said Will. “The fireplace was doused with gasoline. I can smell it.” Stuart sniffed and compartmentalized the scorched wood, the singed electrical, and the smoke. Underneath it all was the unmistakable sweet tang of gasoline. “Arson and murder,” he muttered. “What a great night. I’ll call the cops and an ambulance.” Stuart returned to the truck, where he radioed for help. As he did so, he couldn’t help but wonder — how had the three people arrived at the building without a vehicle? How had the neighbors missed seeing anyone at the cabin? Were they brought here specifically to be murdered? Stuart ordered his team out of the cabin to preserve the crime scene. While the cabin smoldered, his weary firefighters began to pack up their equipment. He spoke to the police who arrived and he watched the ambulance slowly drive away with three human bodies inside. At first light, the arson investigators would comb through the cabin and he would be required to be there. First light was only a few hours away. It would necessitate dental records to identify the three deceased persons. They would be identified as Edward Sable, Leonard Marks, and Susan Epping. Nobody knew why they were at the cabin or, indeed, how they’d even gotten there. Nobody knew that they had been the president, secretary, and treasurer, respectively, of the Movement, a shadowy and secretive eugenics organization that few people had realized even existed. Nobody knew but Senator Winters. And he wasn’t talking.

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Enjoy a sneak preview of the third book in the compelling Dinah Harris mystery series,

Pieces of Light! I dream that I have a normal life — loving parents, perhaps a wife and kids. I dream of being stuck in traffic, waiting on a delayed flight in an airport, being unable to find a parking space, and a thousand other little grievances because it would mean that I was free. I know there aren’t many who feel sympathy for me. After all, what about the lives of the victims? That’s true. I don’t have a reply to that. Someone is coming who might be able to help me understand. Her name is Dinah Harris. So I guess the truth is that I’ve agreed to do these interviews with an ulterior motive. I want to question her as much as she wants to question me. I want what she’s got — compassion, peace, and understanding so powerful that they have somehow defeated despair, bitterness, and judgment. How did she do it? He drove the van carefully. The cargo in the back was heavy and although not unstable, he didn’t want the barrels to fall over. He also drove carefully to ensure a passing cop wouldn’t pay him any attention. He wore high-visibility work clothes, so that he looked like he had work to do wherever he stopped. With his heart making a staccato rhythm in his throat, he waited for someone to yell at him or stop him. At the end of the street, pretending to have a conversation on his cell, he turned around and scoped out the surroundings. All the visible pedestrians were too busy to take notice of the van and hurried by without a backward glance. He then looked at the buildings around the church, where somebody looking out of a window might have seen him and wondered what he was doing. Everything had gone according to plan.

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At seven o’clock precisely, evening mass began at Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church. At 7:14 the bomber, seated at a bench overlooking the street pretended to take another cell phone call. Except this time, he pressed the “receive” button. The explosion could be seen before the loud rumble reached his ears and the seat beneath him shook a little. A smoky orange ball rose above the rooftops and the bomber had to suppress a smile at its beauty. “What happened?” he asked a young lady standing nearby. “Do you know what happened?” “Something’s been blown up,” she said, her voice high-pitched. “People are saying a church has been blown up!” “What?” he said, faking incredulity. “Who would do such a thing?” “Terrorists,” she said, gravely. He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his ears. As he’d known it would, his bomb shut down the city. By morning, the news would be able to paint a clearer picture. Two people were dead, 35 were injured. The church looked like a listing, stricken warship, one entire wall missing and the roof leaning precariously to one side. A burning, acidic odor wafted pungently over the bomb site. Everyone in the city whispered to themselves and each other. Mostly, they wondered: who did this and why?

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Julie Cave Julie has loved books all her life and began writing at the age of 12. At the age of 15, she heard a creation science speaker at her church which ignited her interest in creation science and sparked an enthusiasm for defending the Bible’s account of creation. It wasn’t until she was in her mid-twenties, after re-dedicating her life to Jesus, that she began thinking about combining the two as a Christian ministry. In the meantime, she obtained a university degree in health science, worked in banking and finance for ten years, and is currently completing a university degree in law. Julie is married with one daughter and lives on the east coast of Australia. Her interests include reading, writing, and spending time at the beach.

Keep track of Julie’s latest writing projects through: • her blog at juliecave.com; be sure to sign up for updates and exclusive preview chapters of the next books in the series • her tweets on twitter.com/julieacave